


A Comedy of (Human) Errors

by resrie71



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Dates, Inexperienced Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Mycroft's Meddling, Post-Season/Series 03, they will get there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-06 13:38:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3136430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resrie71/pseuds/resrie71
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is back at Baker Street and Sherlock comes up with a plan to get things rolling between them. Making John jealous sounds like a good idea, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by the lovely JaydaMorgana's Unlovable. With her permission, I borrowed her character of David Cavanaugh, but I made him quite a bit nicer.....

Chapter 1

The situation was intolerable. As a Holmes, intellect was to be prized above all else. Self control. Discipline. Sherlock had certainly never had any issue in these areas. Before. Now his life had to be bisected into Before and After. 

Before! Ah, those were the days! Cool intellect, lightning fast deductions, always deducing and the rush of pleasure in finding out he was right, regardless of the impact on other's feelings. Donovan and Anderson were his favorite guinea pigs in that area, although they were hardly a challenge for someone like him. 

Before, nothing was muddied up with feelings, fears of consequences, worries over anyone else's approval. 

Now, however, on the After side of the line, nothing was so simple. After was, of course, After falling for John Watson. 

Initially, meeting John hadn't been particularly shattering. He was nice, in a bland sort of way. As an army doctor, he had to be reasonably intelligent. Having a doctor on site could be quite handy for dealing with the scrapes he occasionally got himself into. He was likely to accept the offer of a flatshare as he obviously had quite limited means. It was also unlikely that he would make many demands, being so financially precarious. 

Even with these probabilities in mind, Sherlock was somewhat surprised when John actually showed up to see the flat after being deduced so thoroughly in front of his friend. He could tell from John's reaction, that Mike really hadn't warned him about the type of person he was going to meet. He was further pleased when John didn’t even blink about his help with Mr. Hudson’s demise. It had taken only the slightest nudge to get the doctor to accompany him to the crime scene.

Lauriston Gardens had been a revelation. Where the Yarders and even Lestrade would balk at his deductions, John merely accepted that Sherlock was right, and _praised_. That Mycroft had been unable to dissuade him, further spoke in his favor. Was there a downside to this man at all?

Ah yes, the downside. There John was, at Angelo’s, asking if Sherlock was _available_. That would never do. The man needed to understand that nothing could be permitted to distract him from the Work. Sherlock turned him down politely, but firmly. 

And therein lie the problem. 

Somewhere in the hazy time between Before and After, John had become Important. Not just important, Essential. A distraction, and yet not. His absence was, if possible, more distracting than his presence. 

At the pool, for the first time Sherlock was truly afraid that he might lose John. Yes, the Chinese gangsters had been dangerous, but the crossbow had been pointed at _Sarah_ , not John. After the pool, Sherlock had been forced to acknowledge John’s importance, to even allow that he cared for John.

When he planned the Fall, he knew John would be upset. His own tears during their rooftop phone call had surprised him. Amazingly, it hurt him to know that he would be hurting John. It was a wonder he had actually been able to make himself step off the rooftop. Only knowing the true danger John was in gave him the courage to do it.

Hearing John’s broken voice, feeling his hands clutching at him, knowing his despair; it was a minor miracle that Sherlock didn’t sit up and embrace his friend. Soothe him. Kiss away his fears. 

Because that was the truth. Somewhere along the line, Sherlock had fallen in love with John Watson. Only then, when it was far too late, did Sherlock finally accept it.

For the two years he was away, he learned repeatedly how much he had taken John for granted. He couldn’t have a cup of tea without thinking of warm smiles and soft jumpers. Better to stop drinking tea than torture himself like that. Whenever he met anyone named John (a disgustingly common name) he could feel his pulse jump, until his traitorous feelings could be convinced that it wasn’t his John. So he stopped learning anyone’s name. He learned the hard way that no one had his back anymore, at least no one he could trust, so he nearly developed a spasm in his neck from twisting suddenly to see if he was being followed.

It never should have taken so long. He had thought three months, six at the most. These two years had taught him something important. Caring _was_ an advantage. If not for the all consuming need to keep John safe, to return to him, he’d have given up many times over.

When he was finally on his way back to London, he had his first cup of tea in nearly two years.

The events following his return were anticlimactic to say the least. John had moved on. Sherlock wasn’t angry with him for doing so. How could he have expected him to wait? It had been easy for Sherlock to do so; he knew John was alive and no one else had ever appealed to him. Simple. John however, had no idea that Sherlock was alive or cared for him in a romantic manner.

If the only way he could have a relationship with John was to remain friends with him, then that would have to do. He would never let John doubt his importance again. 

And then everything unfolded with Mary. John forgiving her at Christmas had been hard for Sherlock to accept, but she was his wife, and she was carrying his child. And then John surprised him, yet again.

While Mary was in recovery after her c-section, John had arranged for a paternity test. When the results came back, the baby wasn’t his. He told Sherlock later, that the date for the conception hadn’t worked out and he had been suspicious once he had had time to think about it. 

John had shown up at 221B with two suitcases and the announcement that no divorce was necessary because Mary had married him under an assumed name.

Just like that. John was back at the flat.

Now what?

Sherlock had turned John down quite firmly years ago. He had seen no sign since that John had any interest whatsoever in men. He could not risk John being upset if his male flatmate made unwanted advances towards him. There had been the stag night, but John had been quite intoxicated at the time. In that state he may have shown an attraction to anyone, Anderson even. 

There was also the issue that John was just coming out of a failed marriage to an assassin. Not the greatest timing for his previously uninterested flatmate to start hitting on him. How could he find out if John could ever be interested in him? Easy answer. He couldn't. Unless John made the first move...and that would never happen. Or could it?

A plan began to form in Sherlock’s mind.

 

~0~0~0~0~0~

 

John woke from the first restful night’s sleep he’d had in ages. Waking up in his room at Baker Street, with no thought of ever having to leave again hanging over his head, was glorious.

He had stayed here for awhile when Sherlock was recovering after his collapse, but he had known he still had to deal with his wife. Whether she had meant to kill him or not, shooting Sherlock was unforgivable. People died from less grievous wounds all the time. She had seen how badly he was affected by Sherlock's 'death'. That she would have subjected him to that all over again, when John had just gotten him back, no, that was beyond forgiving.

But she was carrying his child. He could easily see this Mary using his child as a pawn. Nothing remained but for him to play nice until a paternity test could be done without raising her suspicions. 

When it came back that the baby wasn't his, John felt an enormous weight lift off of his shoulders. Mary was no longer his concern. No matter how determined she was to keep him, she had nothing with which to hold him anymore. Her cover was blown and any action she could possibly take against either him or Sherlock would bring the full might of the British Government down upon her. It was done. Over. 

John stretched lazily and contemplated getting out of bed. There was nothing that could make this anymore perfect. Well, except...but there was no point in wishing for the impossible. There was no way that Sherlock could possibly return his feelings, he just didn't _do_ sentiment.

Throughout their association before Sherlock's 'death', John had known that Sherlock was his best friend. Even best friend really didn't cover it. It was more than that. Sherlock had saved his life the day they met. That morning, before going for a walk in the park, John had stared at the drawer containing his gun. When he had opened the drawer to get his laptop out, his eyes had fixed on the dark metal gleaming up at him.

That fact that he had nothing whatsoever to write in his blog just brought home to him that he was really nothing more than a waste of oxygen. If he hadn't run into Mike, hadn't met Sherlock that day, there was no doubt in John's mind that he would have been dead by the end of the week. If it had even taken that long.

There really wasn't a word to describe someone who saved your life simply by giving it meaning again. At the wedding, Sherlock had said that John had saved his life so many times and in so many ways, but John wondered if Sherlock knew that the reverse was true as well. Sherlock had cured his limp, depression, and boredom all in one fell swoop. Sherlock wasn't his best friend, he was a bloody miracle.

Seeing Sherlock fall had broken him. The days and weeks after were all a blur. It was only a few months later that he realized he was grieving for much more than the loss of a friend. He realized that he would have given literally anything to have Sherlock back. To hold him and tell him that he believed in him. To hold him and never let him go again.

John had a hard time pinpointing exactly when his feelings for Sherlock had changed. The case with Irene Adler had nearly driven him ‘round the twist, but he wasn't sure he was jealous at that point. He had been worried for Sherlock, especially over his reaction to her ‘death’. It was probably during the Baskerville case, when Sherlock had said that he didn't have ‘friends’. The pain that lanced through him at that moment had been way too intense to just be anger over Sherlock being a drama queen. Hell, once he had apologized the next day, John had hardly even gotten irked over Sherlock admitting that he had tried to drug him. If that wasn't love, what was?

After that, so much happened so quickly. And the timing when the bugger came back! Talk about priceless! Popping up while he was trying to propose to Mary. They’d only been going together for about six months, if he’d had any clue….Well, he’d have spared himself the agony of the last two years at least.

Sherlock was back. John was back at Baker Street and he certainly wasn't going to let go of the relationship he had with Sherlock now. Sherlock wasn't interested in relationships, but John vowed he was never going to let his friend down again.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 

What a day. A twelve hour shift at the surgery, he'd had barely time to choke down a sandwich roughly eight hours ago, and being vomited on no less than four times by various flu patients. John was ready to shower, order take away, and pass out while watching crap telly with Sherlock. He was thoroughly exhausted and not up to much of anything. At this rate he’d be lucky if he didn’t fall asleep waiting for dinner to arrive.

He opened the door into the kitchen and was possessed of the urge to turn around and make sure he had come in the right flat. The kitchen was clean. Sparkling. He could operate on the table if necessary. Although first you’d have to move the two formal place settings, bud vase with a single rose, and candle. A candlelight dinner? John’s heart began to pound…

“John?”

John raised his eyes to see Sherlock striding toward him, impeccably dressed, holding a glass of red wine...and behind him was...who?

“I’d like you to meet David Cavanaugh, and old friend from uni. I bumped into him today at my tailor’s and, well, we decided on dinner tonight. David, this is my flatmate, John Watson.”

Flatmate? He didn’t even rate a ‘friend’ introduction anymore? On autopilot, John extended his hand and took in the Adonis that was David Cavanaugh.

He was, if possible, slightly taller than Sherlock, and just as dark as Sherlock was pale. His olive skin gleamed in the low lighting and his thick jet black hair had just the slightest wave to it as it fell elegantly to his shoulders. Amidst all of this was a pair of the most shockingly green eyes he had even seen. They had to be contacts, they just had to be. Where Sherlock was whipcord lean, David was muscular without quite approaching body builder size. When David smiled, his perfect, even, white teeth fairly leapt out at you, like something out of Johnny Bravo. 

But the most disturbing thing, was how Sherlock’s eyes followed David’s every movement, like a caress. Between that and the ‘flatmate’ introduction, John had never felt like more of a third wheel. He plastered what he hoped was a smile on his completely numb face.

“Pleasure to meet you, David. I hope you’ll excuse me, had an exhausting day, and am really looking forward crashing out.” 

“Are you sure you won’t join us? I could set another place at the table…” Sherlock’s tone was doubtful. 

“No, no, I’m just really tired.” John turned stiffly and strode from the room in what he hoped wasn’t too rude of a manner.

“Rest well,” called David as John headed up the stairs. God, even the man’s voice was beautiful.

John collapsed on his bed and just sat there. Staring at the floor. What the hell was that? Sherlock had a date? It was obviously a date. He couldn’t even console himself with the idea that Sherlock wasn’t aware of the romantic nature of the situation. His attention was totally on David, his body oriented toward David’s the whole time. Sherlock not only knew this was a date, he was undeniably attracted to David.

And who could blame him? John certainly didn’t look his best tonight, but even at his best, next to David he was nothing more than a short, aging, nobody. The two of them looked absolutely striking together, a study in contrasts. John was certainly a contrast, but not in any sort of favorable way! Even in his most fit Army days of fifteen years ago, he never would have compared to David Cavanaugh. Most assuredly now, at forty, he was particularly pathetic.

He stripped, put on sweats and a t-shirt and climbed into bed. As drained as he was, he didn’t for one moment think he was going to sleep anytime soon.

~0~0~0~0~0~

Lying in his bed, alone, that night, Sherlock felt the night had gone quite well. John’s obvious discomfort with the situation was promising. Was he jealous? More importantly, was he jealous enough to say something? 

Even now, he could faintly hear John’s bedsprings as he tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep. Sherlock and David had been just loud enough in their conversation to ensure that John could hear their voices, even through his closed bedroom door. Of course, David was in on the whole plan, had been the perfect choice really.

David had had quite the crush on Sherlock back at uni. Sherlock had, of course, done nothing to encourage him and nothing had ever happened between them. David obviously had the ulterior motive of trying to make Sherlock fall in love with him under the guise of making John jealous. It would never happen, but it would certainly make David’s performance convincing. Contacting him and persuading him to act in this particular play had been ridiculously easy.

Ah, there it was, the sound he was waiting for. John’s feet hitting the floor as he gave up and got out of bed. Any minute now he would stagger downstairs and switch on the kettle. Sherlock would give him a few minutes and then join him in the sitting room and maybe they could get this sorted tonight!

Hmm, some movements around in John’s room, perhaps looking for his dressing gown? It was in the loo, hanging on the back of the door, as always. What was he doing? No matter, there were his footsteps on the stairs. Wait, he was continuing down, to the front door. 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open as he heard the front door close behind John. He was leaving? 

He was leaving!

Sherlock bolted out of bed and ran to the living room window, but John was nowhere in sight. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen!

He dashed up the stairs to John’s room. Sighed in relief. All of his things were still there. He hadn’t packed. Hadn’t _left_. Just went out to get some air. Fair enough. It was John’s go-to method of dealing with stress. John would go for a walk, sort through his feelings, and then come home. They could have this all put right by breakfast.

 

~0~0~0~0~0~

 

By three, John had had enough of tossing and turning in bed. His first thought was to get up and make a cuppa, but the thought of Sherlock possibly still being in the living room was unbearable. He knew David had left, had heard Sherlock walk him down to the door and a few moments of quiet (a goodnight kiss?), before the front door had closed and Sherlock had bound happily up the stairs. That had been just after midnight and John had done nothing since but imagine their goodnight kiss, and how they must have looked together when it had happened. 

Was it a deep kiss? Full of longing and promise for their next date? And there would be another date, no doubt about that. He could hear them talking and laughing over dinner, never quite loud enough to hear exactly what they were saying, never quite loud enough to ask them to keep it down, but just loud enough to know that they were having a wonderful time together. 

How could he possibly handle this? Could he live here and watch Sherlock fall in love with someone else? If he had ever believed that Sherlock could feel genuine affection for him, he was disabused of that notion now. Seeing who Sherlock was interested in, he now knew beyond any doubt that Sherlock was way out of his league.

Suddenly, 221B was the _last_ place he wanted to be. He quickly put his shoes on, grabbed the first jumper he lay hand to and yanked in on. He headed down the stairs as quietly as he could, snatched his jacket off the peg by the door, and he was out in the calming night air.

He didn’t even make it to Regent’s Park before the sleek black car pulled up alongside him. He sighed, still looking straight ahead. Had he really expected anything else? John leaving in the middle of the night, without Sherlock, obviously not dressed for an emergency at the surgery, no case for Lestrade, and Mycroft kept tabs on both Sherlock’s and John’s blogs so he would know there was no case there. Of course, Mycroft would want to know what the hell was going on. For that matter so did John. 

Oh well, no use fighting it. John turned toward the car, opened the door and slid in next to Mycroft.

“Good evening...or morning rather, John.”

“Let’s skip the pleasantries, please, Mycroft. What do you want?”

“I am concerned, John. Is that so hard to believe? It is not normal for you to leave the flat at such an hour, and in such a state as this. What has my foolish brother done this time?”

“It’s nothing, certainly none of your business.”

“Has it anything to do with the gentleman who was here earlier this evening? An elegant individual, I have been lead to believe.”

John sighed. Was there nothing that escaped this man’s notice? Hell, Mycroft probably knew everything anyway.

“Does the name David Cavanaugh mean anything to you? He was Sherlock’s _date_ tonight.”

“ _Date?_ ” Mycroft looked positively alarmed, for all of a second. Then his face went nearly blank as he fit pieces together in his head. 

“Ah. Yes. I see.” Mycroft contemplated matters for several seconds. John had never seen him take so long to arrive at a conclusion. 

Mycroft’s brain was whirling. It was only too obvious to him what Sherlock was doing, John was simply too close to the situation to see it. Clearly Sherlock was trying to make John jealous, and David Cavanaugh was definitely suited to the job, given that Mycroft knew how David felt about Sherlock. However, he could easily see this blowing up in Sherlock’s face if the defeated expression on John’s countenance was any indication. Sherlock had chosen someone whom he believed would act the part well, he had not considered that John would be so intimidated by David’s appearance. Sherlock probably hadn’t even _noticed_ David’s appearance he was so obviously enamoured of John. Why wouldn’t these two idiots just talk to each other already? After everything they had already been through, it was evident that nothing was going to keep them apart, so why couldn’t they just get _together_ already?

Mycroft knew he was going to have to tell John what Sherlock was up to. If he did this right, both John and Sherlock wouldn’t be more than mildly irritated with each other, the air would be cleared, they could move forward (maybe even have a laugh about their own antics), and perhaps Mycroft could benefit as well.

When he had told Sherlock that he wasn’t lonely, he hadn’t been lying. During his busy days, there was no time for something so personal as being lonely. There was a reason he took so little time to himself to sleep and care for his own needs. He had a large well appointed flat, every luxury he could want, but it was empty, and he hated spending time there. As he got older, he was beginning to regret not engaging in at least a few personal pursuits. He could not commiserate with even his most trusted staff; they needed to see him as invincible and confident at all times, so that they could present a strong front as well. 

There was one individual he felt he could talk to, and indeed to whom he had a debt of gratitude. Mycroft may have put Sherlock through rehab, but it was Gregory Lestrade who had called him when Sherlock had overdosed, saved his life, and continued to save him for years by challenging him to stay clean. Until John Watson had come along, Gregory Lestrade had been the fine line between Sherlock staying clean or being found dead in an alley somewhere.

Greg’s divorce was several years old at this point, and recent CCTV images placed him at several venues that catered to the not-so-straight side of London. He hadn’t been undercover, but nor had he pulled. Testing the waters, perhaps?

As necessary as his Ice Man persona was for his work, Mycroft knew it made him seem quite unapproachable. And if relationships weren’t Sherlock’s area, then Mycroft was even more of a fish out of water than his brother. As puerile as Sherlock’s scheme was, Mycroft had to admit it had possibilities. John had obviously had a reaction to Sherlock’s date, even if it wasn’t the one he was hoping for. Any reaction at all would undoubtedly spur them to eventually make their confessions. Perhaps the same tactic could be employed in his case. Not to make Gregory jealous or course, but just to let him see that Mycroft wasn’t as unavailable as he seemed.

Conclusions reached, Mycroft turned to John.

“I am sure you are aware, John, that emotional maturity is not Sherlock’s strong point.” At John’s terse nod, Mycroft continued. “You know my brother cares for you deeply, he would never have gone to such lengths with his ‘death’ for anyone else. Your wedding, and all the events since have been quite hard on him, more so than you truly understand. It is my belief, after careful consideration, that Sherlock has no interest at all in David Cavanaugh, and is simply trying to provoke a reaction from you.”

“What’s that?” John sorted through Mycroft’s speech at least three times. No, there was no other conclusion to be drawn. “He’s trying to make me jealous? Why that…”

Mycroft watched as John’s demeanor catapulted from depression to full blown anger in less than a half second. Oh,this would not do. 

“Hear me out, John. What sort of experience do you really think Sherlock has with close, personal, _intimate_ relationships? Far less than you think, I guarantee. His only real exposure has been your girlfriends, your marriage, and whatever crap telly you and Mrs. Hudson have watched with him. Can you understand that his grasp on that particular reality is a trifle _skewed?_ ” 

John seemed to calm down, a bit. He was clearly thinking through everything that Mycroft was telling him.

“The true issue here, John, isn’t what my brother feels for you, but rather his inability to talk to you about it. Instead, he chooses an elaborate plan to manipulate you into doing what he wants. Sound familiar? Does Baskerville ring a bell? Falling from St. Bart’s? Even his handling of the bomb-rigged train carriage under Parliament. All manipulations. If you go back, and talk to him about this now, it will simply teach him that these methods are effective in getting what he wants. I do not see where you have any alternative but to break this cycle or it will become the standard operating procedure at Baker Street.”

“Oh God, you’re right. You know I hate telling you that, Mycroft, but you are right, this time.” He took a deep breath. “What can I do? You know I care for him too, or I wouldn’t be here right now. I don’t know if it could work or not, but you’re right. We don’t stand a chance if he can’t learn to talk to me about something other than just cases.”

Mycroft smiled.

“As it happens, John, I have a plan.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, RL kicked my butt in the last two weeks. I should be able to update weekly for the rest of the story.

Chapter 3

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open the moment he heard John’s key in the front door. He had been gone more than two hours, the sky was just beginning to lighten.

Sherlock had made sure that the door into the living room was open so that John could not fail to see him in his chair, fingers steepled, thinking. Still, he didn’t want John to go straight up to his room, he was tired now, defences lowered, it would be an ideal time for this chat.

“John? Is everything alright?”

John stepped into the sitting room, looking tired, but relaxed, almost...happy? He never looked that way unless...he met someone. A cold feeling of dread settled into Sherlock’s chest.

“Oh, hey, Sherlock. You couldn’t sleep either, hmm? How did your date go?” John’s tone was perfectly even, honestly curious. No, this wasn’t right…

“It was, um, fine. Yes. Fine. Um.” Sherlock cursed his sudden inability to speak. John was supposed to come home and demand that he stop seeing David, not be so calm and wanting to know how their date had gone. Where had John been? Why did he look so...fine? “Where did you get to?”

“Oh, you know, too tired to sleep. Went out for a walk, tried to settle down a bit. Busy day…” John allowed the faintest of smiles to cross his face. “Bit lucky really. Met up with someone, thinking about seeing them again.”

Sherlock knew that there was no reason for there to be pain in the vicinity of his heart, but pain there was. No. He could not go through this again. He shook himself mentally. There was no reason to panic, he had broken up many of John’s dates before. This one would be no different.

“You alright, Sherlock? You look a little peaky.” John kept his expression lightly concerned.

“Yes, I’m, um. Fine.” No doubt about it, he needed to escape and regroup. “I’m just heading to bed, now that you’re back safely.” That’s it, let John know he was still a priority, that his safety was still important to Sherlock.

“Yeah, I’ll be lying down now too. Think I can finally get to sleep now.” John turned at headed up the stairs, a ghost of a smile on his face.

This was not good. Sherlock strode to his room with no thoughts of sleeping.

 

~0~0~0~0~0~

 

After a decent lie-in, John arose and headed down to grab a shower. He needed to be presentable for phase two of Mycroft’s plan. 

Hearing the concern in Sherlock’s voice at how long he had been gone, and knowing that Sherlock had waited up for him had almost made him feel guilty enough to break his resolve. It was only by thinking of all the times Sherlock had manipulated him in order to achieve a specific reaction that he was able to keep with the programme.

_Play it cool, but don’t act completely uncaring. Don’t give any details about your upcoming date_ , Mycroft had instructed him. _Just let me know the next time Lestrade calls you to a crime scene._

John had wondered about the appropriateness of implementing the strategy in public, but Mycroft has assured him that everything would be timed well. John had no cause to doubt, knowing some of the schemes Mycroft had orchestrated over the years, his own brother’s suicide being one.

He showered and shaved carefully, knowing Sherlock would notice the care he was taking with his appearance and attribute it to John’s upcoming ‘date’. He even applied a bit of lotion to his face and plucked a few hairs from his eyebrows, just to bait Sherlock that much more.

When he finally emerged from the bathroom, Sherlock was draped over the sofa. John felt his gaze roam over him and could almost hear the deductions already.

 

~0~0~0~0~0~

What was all this nonsense? Lotion on his face, a new razor, _plucking his eyebrows_? Who was he dating? The Queen? He hadn’t spruced up this much before his wedding, for goodness sake! He couldn’t break up this date fast enough…

The afternoon passed quickly; John’s phone pinging occasionally, John looking at it, smiling, responding, then putting it back in his pocket. He hadn’t set the damn thing down all day. Sherlock was racking his brain for a way to separate John from his phone in order to see what was making him smile... _that_ way.

He could spill tea all over John, but he didn’t know if he could convince John to disrobe in front of him, plus he would still have to sneak the phone out and then there was the chance of actually burning John. 

There was always the necrotic liver in the fridge. No chance of injury, but he should be disgusted enough to get his soiled trousers off fairly quickly. Hmm, possibilities there…

This time the pinging phone was Sherlock’s. Aha! A case! No chance of John being able to go out on his date tonight! All those preparations wasted….poor John!

“John, a case! No time to lose!” Sherlock dashed off to his room to dress. John pulled out his phone.

_Greg, His Highness’ phone is dying. Send me the address? -JW_

_No problem, see you there. -GL_

John forwarded the text to Mycroft.

 

~0~0~0~0~0~

 

It was all John could do not to laugh when they arrived at the crime scene, a warehouse body dump. It wasn’t so different from the warehouse where he had first met Mycroft. Perfect. 

Sherlock was absolutely vibrating with excitement for this case, which honestly was maybe a four. There were _bloody footprints_ for Pete’s sake. Even Anderson should be able to do something with those. And yet, there was Sherlock acting like he had just gotten an early birthday present.

John wondered how Mycroft was going to time his entrance. He’d assured John that nothing he was planning would interfere with the legitimate police work at the scene. John let his gaze roam out the window to the parking lot outside. Ah, CCTV. He was undoubtedly watching right now.

Finally, even Sherlock had to admit that this one was fairly straightforward. 

“Really Geoff, why did you even call me for this? He was obviously murdered by the girlfriend since he had just reconciled with his wife. You’re looking for an older woman, one who doubts her ability to attract a younger man again, and going by the bruising pattern was once instructed in martial arts, but not recently. Also, look for someone with medical experience as the cuts made to actually kill him after beating him up were quite efficient. We’re done here. Come on, John, there’s something I need to check at Bart’s.”

As they strode out of the warehouse, John nearly lost it, when, with perfect timing (they were still in full view of the crime scene), Mycroft’s car pulled up directly in front of them. 

As Mycroft stepped from the vehicle, Sherlock snapped, “ What do _you_ want?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother’s tone. “Contrary to your belief, my world does not necessarily revolve around you, Sherlock.” Mycroft redirected his attention to John. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, quite. Looking forward to it.” John stepped forward.

Sherlock put his arm out, preventing John from taking another step.

“What are you doing?”

“Going out with Mycroft, why? He picked me up last night, He was worried when I left the flat last night and we chatted for a while. He asked if I’d like to go for a drink tonight. Problem?”

“Yes, John told me of your renewed association with David Cavanaugh. Since you are seeing him, I thought that John might finally have a few nights free. So I asked him to accompany me this evening.” 

Sherlock’s mind whirled. No. Mycroft couldn’t be _serious_. John wouldn’t be interested in _Mycroft_. But as John stepped around his still extended arm and slid into Mycroft’s car, Sherlock had a moment of clarity. John was attracted to intelligence. And Mycroft was smarter than Sherlock. Oh God.

Sherlock made note of the fact that John did not move all the way over on the seat, so when Mycroft slid in next to him, their thighs were touching. The car pulled away, and Sherlock was still standing there with his mouth open slightly.

He must have stood there for some time, because the next thing he knew, Lestrade’s voice came from over his shoulder.

“Did I just see John leave with Mycroft?”

“You have eyes, Gavin, even if you don’t use them to observe anything.”

“It’s Greg. And where are they going?”

“Apparently out for drinks. On a date.”

Greg choked. “On a what?” He ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t think your...rather, I thought John was with _you_.”

“You didn’t think my _what_?” Sherlock queried, ignoring the second half of the sentence.

“Nothing, I just never pictured your brother dating anyone, least of all John.”

“Why ‘least of all John’, what’s the matter with _John_?”

“Nothing, it’s just, well….I’m going to shut up now.” Lestrade walked away, quickly.

Sherlock wandered back to the main road and hailed a cab back to Baker Street.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry people. RL just needs to go away and leave me alone for a bit. I will TRY to get Chapter 5 up this week...

Chapter 4

 

Sherlock lay on the sofa in his thinking pose. There were too many scenarios here to decide what to do. 

Did Mycroft truly believe that Sherlock was interested in David Cavanaugh? If he did, then his interest in John could be genuine. Sherlock couldn’t believe that he was the only person to see the worth in John Watson. Loyal, decisive, determined, trustworthy, what was there not to like? The near parade of women John had dated over the years knew what a catch he was; they simply hadn’t been able to stand Sherlock. Mycroft, he knew, would have no such difficulty.

Even if Mycroft knew that Sherlock wasn’t interested in David Cavanaugh, it did not necessarily mean that his interest in John wasn’t genuine, see above reasons. If Mycroft suspected that Sherlock was using David to make John jealous, it would be a perfect time for Mycroft to express his interest. John obviously believed that David and Sherlock were a serious item, or he would not have been so upset that night. If John believed that Sherlock was spoken for, then he could easily decide to console himself elsewhere. Seeing as the male gender no longer seemed to pose a problem, and given his predilection for intelligence, Mycroft would certainly fit the bill.

Now two other considerations. Had Mycroft told John if he suspected Sherlock’s interest in David was to make John jealous? If he had, then Sherlock had to admit that John was a better actor than he gave him credit for. Secondly, was John’s apparent interest in Mycroft genuine? Mycroft’s intelligence would certainly appeal to John, and, inexplicably, John was the one person in the world who had never seemed to be intimidated by his brother. If John knew about Sherlock’s plot, and wasn’t really dating Mycroft...even Sherlock had to grin ruefully. Talk about turnabout being fair play. He couldn’t honestly be angry at John for employing his own tactic against him. But if _any_ of these potential relationships were genuine then he would have to tread carefully or he stood to lose John altogether.

This was why he didn’t do relationships!

 

~0~0~0~0~0~

 

Greg sat in his favourite pub, nursing a pint, and ignoring the match on in the background.

He had no idea what to do with this new information. Knowing that Mycroft did have an interest in relationships made him giddy as hell. Thinking that Mycroft was interested in John made him ill. Especially if John returned that interest. Not that there was anything wrong with John, he was one of the few good guys. The kind of guy with whom he’d be happy to set up any of his friends, if he didn’t work so much that he actually had any friends.

When he had first met Sherlock, he had been brought in on a possession charge. After hearing him deduce everyone he could see or hear at the station, Greg honestly wasn’t sure if the possession was narcotic or demonic. When Mycroft had shown up to take charge of his brother, Greg had seen what that level of intelligence would look like without the influence of the drugs. It was the one time he was truly enraged with Sherlock for squandering his incredible potential. That was what spurred him to make the offer; clean drug screens in exchange for casework. Mycroft had sent him off to rehab with unmistakable hopelessness in his eyes, and Greg had seen the depth to which the man cared for his brother.

After the first month of casework, Sherlock had his first drug screen. And was clean. After the second month, clean as well. Slowly, Greg saw Mycroft relax and saw pride instead of concern in his demeanor whenever they met to discuss Sherlock’s contributions at NSY. 

Initially, Greg had thought that Mycroft was involved with his PA, who accompanied him everywhere. When he had asked Mycroft how long he and Anthea had been together, Mycroft’s response had been a raised eyebrow and “She has been in my _employ_ for three years now. There is nothing further to discuss in that regard.” Greg had quickly surmised that, like Sherlock, relationships were not something Mycroft indulged in, or was willing to discuss.

When John Watson had arrived on the scene, suddenly Sherlock was just, different. Not any more polite or anything radical like that. Just different. Everyone who had any exposure to Sherlock, very quickly recognized that John Watson was important. They still cringed on the occasions when Sherlock showed up to a crime scene without John. Thing was, John had no idea the impact he had had on Sherlock, not having been acquainted with the pre-John version. It was apparent to everyone at the Yard that John was good for Sherlock and that Sherlock cared more for John than he did for the rest of humanity combined. Now, even if it had been a couple of weeks between cases, Greg no longer worried that Sherlock would relapse.

The speculations about the unlikely pair had started with the first case, the pink one, and had run rampant ever since. The betting pool had started up within a week, and there wasn’t an officer in the yard who had ever met the two who hadn’t bought into it. Everyone had to be in a tizzy since John had left the crime scene with Mycroft yesterday. Greg was certain that no one had taken _that_ bet!

Greg would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried about Sherlock right now. No sense hoping to get a straight answer out of Sherlock, and he didn’t quite have the bollocks to ask Mycroft if he thought his relationship with John would be bad for his brother. All kinds of not good there. Nothing for it.

_Hey mate, up for a pint? -GL_

The response came within 2 minutes.

_Sure, name the place. -JW_

_The Boar’s Head, already here. -GL_

_Be there in 20. -JW_

 

~0~0~0~0~0~

 

John sighed. He really hated lying, he was terrible at it. He knew he couldn’t get away with it with Sherlock, the man could practically read his mind. He’d had to actively avoid him this morning, especially with how late he got back to the flat last night. Lying to Greg wouldn’t be fun either, but Mycroft had brought up the point that Sherlock could easily send Greg to find out if they were really dating or not. 

His ‘date’ with Mycroft had actually not been too bad. They had gone to a rather upscale lounge for drinks and conversation. It was nice to be in an establishment where the music or telly wasn’t blaring so loud that you had to yell all of your remarks in order to be heard.

Mycroft had regaled John with all sorts of stories about Sherlock as a child, and John almost wished he could have known him back then. He had to admit though, that as kids, they would have had nothing in common. Hell, he had a hard time understanding why Sherlock put up with him now. It broke his heart a bit to hear how solitary Sherlock was as a child, but it didn’t really surprise him. How many friends would a four year old who was already memorizing scientific nomenclature for the entire plant kingdom have?

Afterward, they had stopped at a little sushi place that Mycroft knew and had continued their conversation there. John had told Mycroft about many of his experiences in Afghanistan. He had the feeling that for someone who pulled as many strings as Mycroft did, he didn’t always have a clear picture of the realities of some of those decisions. Hearing what life was really like for those in the military and for those civilians that John had had contact with, he hoped, could provide a bit of perspective. 

In point of fact, the only portion of the date which had been somewhat uncomfortable was the goodnight kiss. He hadn’t been convinced it was necessary, but he knew Sherlock could easily watch through the living room window when Mycroft brought him home. So kiss Mycroft he had.

To his astonishment, he was sure it had been Mycroft’s first kiss. Not that he ever pictured Mycroft dating, but there had to be someone at some point hadn’t there? Apparently not. John had gotten out of the car and then leaned back in. Mycroft’s lips had been stiff, and there had been almost a panicked feel to them. John had whispered “Myc, if you are going to convince him, you need to relax.” It had worked, a bit, and a few minutes later, John headed up to 221B with the knowledge that Mycroft knew a bit more about kissing than he had before.

 

~0~0~0~0~0~

 

John sank into the chair across from Greg, a full pint already waiting for him.

“Alright, let the Spanish Inquisition begin.”

Greg sighed. “John.”

“Yes?”

“ _Nobody_ expects the Spanish Inquisition!”

The two friends laughed and were grateful for the easy way to break the ice.

“Alright, spill it. What the hell? You and _Mycroft?_ ” Greg folded his arms across his chest and gave his best DI glare.

“Why is everyone so surprised?” John challenged back. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because we all thought you were with _Sherlock_?”

Time for some straight talking here.

“Greg, Sherlock Holmes is not, and has never been, my boyfriend. And it doesn’t look like that is going to change.” John heaved a sigh.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Greg asked, clearly puzzled.

“It means, quite simply, that he and I have never been an item. Before he...’died’...I was certain he didn’t do relationships. But we were best mates. When he came back, well what was supposed to happen then? I was engaged! And we started off hardly talking. Of course, he wormed his back in, that’s what he does. After everything happened with Mary, and the baby not being mine, I moved back. He’s always been there for me, and I thought that maybe….but now he’s seeing someone…”

Greg choked on his beer. “He’s _what_?”

“Yeah, romantic candlelit dinner the other night. Him and some bloke David something-or-other. He’s bloody gorgeous, you should see them together. No way Sherlock Holmes is interested in me, when he can have _that_.”

Greg was completely stumped. He had no idea what to say. If Sherlock wasn’t dating John Watson, he certainly couldn’t picture him with anyone else. But then he thought Mycroft wasn’t interested in any of that either. What the hell was going on with the Holmes’? More investigation was needed.

“So what about you and Mycroft?” Greg asked. His heart sank a bit as John’s expression brightened. 

“I went out for a walk after Sherlock’s _date_ and Mycroft picked me up in one of his bloody cars.” He had to tread carefully here. “When I told him Sherlock was seeing someone, well, he seemed as surprised as everyone else. Said he hadn’t realized that I was ‘available’ and asked me out right there.” That was close enough to the truth. “You know I kind of have a thing for intelligence, and now Sherlock is off the market so I figured, why not? We actually had a really good time.”

Greg was completely flummoxed. Mycroft had only stayed away from John because he thought he was spoken for? Now he really felt pathetic. Still, he and John weren’t all that different. Maybe if he could patch things up between John and Sherlock, maybe there was a chance that Mycroft...who was he kidding?

“So what else you have going on tonight?” Greg asked.

John, checked his watch. “Mycroft wants to take me to some gallery that their family has supported. Built a wing or some such thing. He has some late meetings, so I don’t know if we’ll make it or not. Actually I should go get ready, he’s supposed to pick me up in an hour or so.”

“Alright, mate. Catch you later.” Greg sat back to ponder their conversation after John left. Nothing for it. He’d wait til John was out on his date, and go have a chat with Sherlock.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one, sorry. Hoping to get most of the rest of this story done in the next two weeks, starting to panic because I am rapidly catching up to what I have completed so far!

Chapter 5

 

John puttered in the bathroom, ‘getting ready for his date’. He hadn’t had to avoid Sherlock hardly at all, the man barely looked at him. Knowing he was being deduced the whole time he was in here, he was going to make it count. If Sherlock was all that bothered by him going out with Mycroft, he could bloody well speak up.

Let’s see, he’d done the lotion again, smoothed his eyebrows, shaved, ah, there we go. He got the box of condoms down out of the medicine cabinet and took two out, letting the packets crinkle slightly as he slipped them into his pocket. He stepped out into the sitting room and it was all he could do not to laugh at the shocked look on Sherlock’s face.

“You’re still lying on the sofa. You’re going to grow roots if you don’t watch it. Don’t you and David have any plans for tonight?”

“Not as yet, no. Perhaps I should call him.” Sherlock had expressed more interest in replicating experiments on mould cultures than he did in calling David. 

“Perhaps you should.” He couldn’t believe he was able to get that out so casually. “Off out. Don’t wait up.” John beat a hasty retreat before he could give himself away.

Sherlock closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the flat without John in it. Now what was he going to do? He still didn’t have any more information that he had before, except for the fact that John was definitely interested in _Mycroft_. How in the world had that happened? Somehow it had. He wished he hadn’t watched out the sitting room window when Mycroft had brought John home last night. While he hadn’t been at an ideal angle, it had been obvious that they were, in fact, kissing, and that it was no quick peck on the cheek. John had come up the stairs with quite the satisfied smile, said a very distracted goodnight, and headed up to his room. Sherlock had no idea if the vaguely masturbatory sounds he heard not long after were part of his imagination or not. 

He honestly could not imagine being more miserable. Even if he were to speak up about David now, John was seeing someone. If John hadn’t broken up with Mary when Sherlock came back, he wasn’t going to break up with _Mycroft_ now. Especially after watching them snog in the car last night. There was no way John would have done that if he weren't genuinely attracted to Mycroft. 

Sherlock tensed upon hearing the front door open, and footsteps coming up the stairs. Not John, nor Mycroft. That was a relief. Ah, Lestrade. Unfortunately, he didn't think even a case could distract him at this point.

There was a perfunctory knock at the door before Lestrade let himself in. One look at Sherlock molded to the couch was enough to make him glad he was here.

"You look like hell, mate," Greg intoned from the doorway. " Everything alright?” Greg strode in, turning to face Sherlock.

"No, Glenn, everything is most assuredly not alright. How could everything be alright when John is dating Mycroft? His girlfriends were bad enough, this is intolerable!" There, that should be disapproving enough of the relationship, without declaring his feelings for John, or worse, admitting the whole pathetic jealousy plot. 

"Yeah, threw me for a bit of a loop there, too. Didn't know that Mycroft went in for the whole relationship 'thing'." Lestrade waved a hand, gesturing to the room at large. 

"He doesn't, or rather, didn't, " Sherlock murmured thoughtfully. " It's odd, " Sherlock pondered aloud. "When I first came back, Mycroft claimed that he wasn't lonely. I asked him how would he know. He droned on at length about how he was so above the rest of us, said it was like living in a world of goldfish. Granted, there are few who are as intelligent, but maybe he would be interested in someone if they were intelligent _enough_.... " Sherlock trailed off as he began to look over the DI speculatively.

"What's that then?" Greg in no way thought he was even close to being the intellectual equal of Mycroft. What did Sherlock mean by intelligent enough? 

“What d’ya mean intelligent ‘enough’? And what’s this I hear that you’re seeing someone? David? John said something about some romantic candle lit dinner.”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “David Cavanaugh. Immaterial, try not to get distracted.”

Greg gaped at Sherlock’s cavalier statement regarding his ‘date’. He wouldn’t act that way about a relationship unless it was….oh, Lord….

Thank heavens John’s chair was right behind him. Greg sank into it with a pained laugh.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, it’s all an act isn’t it? You’re trying to make John jealous and it's backfired hasn’t it? Now he thinks you're spoken for and he’s moved on. Again.”

Sherlock glared at Lestrade. Why did the man have to pick _now_ to be observant? Still, he could be a useful ally. Maybe if he could get his brother interested in someone besides John, this would still be salvageable.

“What _are_ you doing this evening, Garth?” Sherlock sat up and began to straighten his clothes, looking pointedly at Greg.

“ _Greg_ , and if you think _I’m_ going to go out with you….”

“No, no, not with me. With Mycroft. Obviously.” Sherlock huffed, exasperated. Why was everyone so slow? Goldfish indeed.

“Alright. Stop. Why don’t you spell it out for me? And use small words, okay?” Greg had the feeling he was about to get swept up by Hurricane Sherlock.

“Listen, Gary. It is imperative that we get Mycroft interested in someone other than John. John and yourself have many things in common, similar backgrounds, and you both have something in common with Mycroft, me. It makes sense to let Mycroft know that you are interested in a relationship with him, and provided he isn’t _truly_ interested in John, he’ll break it off with him to start seeing you. Now were any of those words too long?”

“Whoa, who said I’m interested in your brother?”

Sherlock sighed. “Please. You haven’t dated anyone since your divorce was finalized. You haven’t even cast appreciative glances at anything female in ages. Anytime Mycroft is involved in any of our cases you take more care with your appearance. The ties you wear those days are always silk and perfectly knotted, rather than those polyester ropes you throw on on average days. You listen to everything he says with rapt attention, but avoid speaking yourself because you are self-conscious. Need I go on?”

Greg winced and scraped a hand along the back of his neck. “That obvious, am I?”

Sherlock grinned and winked, suddenly a little more at ease with the situation. “Did John say where they were going?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, people. Ready for the angst?

Chapter 6

 

The exhibition at the gallery wasn't as high brow as John had feared. There were cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, but the overall mood was fairly casual and relaxed. He and Mycroft had taken in some of the pieces on display and, surprisingly, agreed that the fuss over the assembled works was unwarranted. 

One plus of the evening was being able to touch base with Mycroft about the progress of the situation without the chance of being overheard or leaving evidence in text messages. 

"You should have seen the look on his face when I came out of the loo after he heard me put condoms in my pocket. He really has no idea what to think about us."

"Condoms, John? Oh that was cruel, but I must agree he deserves to stew a bit. He has put you through the the proverbial wringer emotionally so many times."

The two smirked at each other and chuckled, genuinely enjoying each other's company for a change. John looked up at Mycroft just in time to see the smile fall from his face.

“Oh, bugger. Tonight only needed _this_.” John turned quickly to see Sherlock and Lestrade enter the gallery...only to be approached by David Cavanaugh.

 

~0~0~0~0~0~

 

Sherlock felt his stomach churn as he saw John and Mycroft across the gallery. They were standing far too close to each other, looking at each other and smiling. Was he too late? If they had already formed any kind of _attachment_ to each other....he shuddered at the thought. It did not bear contemplating. 

The ride over, even in Lestrade’s police car, had seemed interminable, and yet not long enough. Sherlock had no experience in these matters, and had come up with plan after plan to separate John and Mycroft. He had considered everything from a fabricated case to pulling the fire alarm. 

Greg grasped Sherlock’s wrist to get his attention. “Why don’t you just tell him how you feel?”

“Oh yes, Gordon, that is a wonderful idea. Barge in on his date, with my _brother_ , not knowing how he feels about me, and try to break them up with a story about my feelings for _him_!” Sherlock glared at the DI menacingly. “Even to my understanding of social decorum, that would be unforgivably rude.”

“Is it a story though? ‘Fess up, Sherlock. You’re in love with him. None of this would bother you so much if you weren’t.”

Sherlock took a deep breath to deliver some scathing retort, held it for a moment, and then appeared to collapse in upon himself. He looked out the window, unable to meet the other man’s gaze while he answered.

“Of course I care for him. How could I not? He has always believed in me, even when he had no reason to. He has always put me first, before his work, his other friends, his girlfriends, even himself. When not another soul in the world had a kind word for me, he called me amazing. Brilliant. Fantastic. Tell me, Greg, did I ever stand a chance against him?”

Greg smiled. “Nope. And you got my name right, for once.”

Sherlock smiled back. “I was bound to stumble on it sooner or later.”

 

~0~0~0~0~0~

 

In the end, Sherlock and Greg decided to simply wing it. Get to the gallery, find John and Mycroft, and attempt a reasonable conversation. With stomach churning, heart in his throat, and his eyes on John, Sherlock strode forward…

...only to have David Cavanaugh fall into step beside him, place a hand on the small of his back, and act for all the world like he had arranged to meet him there.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock whispered furiously, leaning in toward David. Sherlock groaned internally. In trying to avoid causing a scene he had leaned rather close. To the casual onlooker, it would appear that they were kissing their hellos. 

“Why, love, you don’t seem pleased to see me. I knew your family was sponsoring this event and it would be unseemly for you to be unaccompanied….”

Sherlock quickly ran through the possibilities. John and Mycroft had been standing quite close when he had entered the gallery, and now, looking over David’s shoulder, he could see that Mycroft had his arm around John’s waist. John was leaning into him, listening as Mycroft directed his attention to one of the exhibits. They appeared to be completely relaxed with each other. Perhaps David could still be useful. 

If Sherlock were to go storming up to them now, and this was a genuine _date_ , both John and Mycroft would be quite irate with him for barging in on them. If there was truly nothing he could do, at least he would save face by not being here alone. If by some chance this was an orchestrated attempt to provoke a reaction from _him_ , well, then he could still play out his game as well. A win-win situation, actually.

“Very well, follow my lead.” Sherlock put on his most engaging smile and began to steer them towards Mycroft and John, leaving Lestrade to follow in their wake.

“Your plan doesn’t seems to be working there, love,” David murmured as he noted the couple they were approaching. “John seems rather smitten. And with Mycroft, no less.”

“Shut up.” Sherlock placed his arm around David’s waist as they approached the other couple.

“Mycroft, I didn’t realize you attended these affairs. John, enjoying yourself?” Sherlock’s eyes were practically glued to John, intensely observing his reaction.

John moved in closer to Mycroft, leaning into him slightly. “Quite. Mycroft has been showing me around. I had no idea your family was so involved in the artistic community.” Sherlock winced as John gazed up at Mycroft fondly, although Mycroft seemed somewhat ill at ease. Why would he...ah...Sherlock saw Mycroft’s eyes dart fleetingly over to where the DI was standing. Yes. That explained so much!

“I wonder if I might borrow John for just a moment? And I believe Lestrade had something to discuss with you as well, brother.”

Greg startled slightly, his hand twitching towards his tie, one of his polyester ones, in a nervous gesture. He stepped toward Mycroft while casting a glare at Sherlock over his shoulder. “Um, yeah. There was that one case…”

Sherlock moved toward John, frowning at David when he attempted to follow. David hung back, reluctantly, with what could only be described as a pout on his face.

Sherlock turned his attention completely to John. He kept his voice low enough to keep the conversation private, but urgent nonetheless.

“What are you doing here with Mycroft?” he hissed. “You can’t possibly _actually_ be interested in him!”

“We are on a date, Sherlock! And why can’t I be interested in him? He’s intelligent, charming when he sets himself out to be, and he _asked_!” John took a deep breath. “Me being attracted to him is no more farfetched than you being interested in David!”

“Please! How could you possibly think I could be interested in David?” Sherlock snapped. He gave John an exceedingly pained expression. “Out of some 7 billion people on this planet , I can tolerate perhaps 3 of them. How could you think that one of them would be a pretentious arse like David?” He took a breath. If he was going to risk anything, it would have to be now. He placed both of his hands on John’s upper arms. “There is only one person here I am interested in being with.” He pinned John with a significant stare.

John gulped, visibly, then deflected. It wasn't enough, Sherlock had to stop manipulating and speak plainly. “B-Be that as it may, David is your date, and it looks like he is rather anxious to spend time with you, and mine…”

“Hasn’t taken his eyes off of Lestrade since we got here. Can’t you see, John? I may have been using Cavanaugh to make you jealous, but Mycroft was using you to do the same with Guy!”

“It’s Greg, and what?” John spun to see Mycroft run his hand down Greg’s arm, curling his long fingers in at his wrist, and gazing at Greg very intently. While John was aware of Sherlock’s plot, him admitting it while appearing to be annoyed with John for not falling for it was just too much. Now finding out that there was _another_ plot in the works, again using him as a dupe, was _way. Too. Much._

The rage blooming on John’s face was enough to have Sherlock stepping back, cringing at the vitriol about to spew forth. Did he truly care for Mycroft?

“How could...what….”John’s color could best be described as puce as he struggled for words. Greg and Mycroft had both turned to look at him; Greg in confusion, and Mycroft losing what little color he had.

The damn finally burst.

“What is it with you Holmes’?” John managed to shout without raising his voice much above a whisper. “Is it too much to ask for a little honesty? Just once? Just one time would it be possible to take anything either of you say at face value? _You_!” He stabbed a finger in Mycroft’s direction. “You pick me up when I’m absolutely shattered, when I’m in no shape to question what you’re saying. Tell me you have a plan to get _him_ to finally talk to me but all along you were just using me to get to Greg.” Greg looked up at Mycroft, stunned. John continued his rant, nowhere near done. He jabbed a finger behind himself, pointing at Sherlock. “You know what Mycroft? Don’t ever think you’re any better or smarter than him, because you’re not.”

Now John turned his attention on Sherlock. “You have manipulated me since day one. You lie to me, experiment on me, try to drug me, hell, you made me believe you were dead for _two years_! It nearly killed me, that did. Do you know _why_ it nearly killed me? Because I thought you did it, killed yourself, because you thought I didn’t believe in you. For two years I not only believed that you were dead, I believed it was _my fault_! But I forgave it all, because I got my wish, I got you back. But now when it’s something so important, when it will affect the rest of our lives, could you just talk to me? Not play games, not have to be so damn clever. What makes you think you’re any better than Mary?”

John pressed his lips shut, closed his eyes, and shook his head once, with finality. He wasn’t done, not done by a long shot, but he flat out refused to say any more to either of them. He turned to David, still standing on the outskirts of the confrontation.

“You haven’t lied to me yet. What are you doing tonight?” John asked in the most reasonable tone he could manage at the moment.

David grinned. “Whatever you are, apparently.”

John strode past him, and David fell in alongside, throwing a smirk over his shoulder at Sherlock’s stunned expression.

Greg cleared his throat to get Mycroft’s attention. 

“Is that true? You used John to make me jealous? Make me want to ask you out? You didn’t talk to him, or to me, just set up some scheme?” He shook his head at the floor before looking back up at Mycroft. “I dealt with enough deception from the ex-wife, thanks. Don't really want to sign on for more of that.” He turned and trailed after John and David.

Sherlock and Mycroft looked after them, then slowly met each other’s gaze.

_What have we done?_


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks, RL has been absolute chore lately. I'm a week late in updating, and it's a short chapter, but hopefully I will yet earn your forgiveness. I'm polishing Chapter 8, and it's a substantial one, but I'm hoping to have it ready to post within a week.

Chapter 7

The three now dateless men sat together at the far end of the bar of some nameless pub. John and Greg were into their third pints, while David, the posh git, sipped on his second Talisker. There finally seemed to be enough social lubrication for the conversation to start.

“So,” John paused to take a swallow out of his pint. “How did you get roped into all of this, David?”

David huffed out a rather pathetic laugh. “Knew Sherlock in uni. He was even prettier then. Had quite the crush on him, I did. Got about as far now as I did then.” He took a small sip and winced at his own misery. “Absolutely nowhere. I always thought he was completely untouchable, until he called me last week. Knew he had it bad for someone when he asked me to pretend to date him. I mean, it could have been for some case, but he wanted dinner at home, not anywhere to be spying on anyone.”

“You want to know the sad part, David?” John took another pull from his beer. “If he had just set that dinner up for me, hell, we’d probably have embarrassed Mrs. Hudson with all our carryings on.”

David grinned. “Can’t blame you there…”

Greg finally joined in the conversation. “How is it that you seem okay with all of this? Looks like you’ve been carrying a torch for him for years.” 

“Well I knew from the word go that I didn’t really have a chance with him. Never seen him give anyone a second glance before, but everything had to be just perfect. It was almost cute watching him agonize over every detail.”

“You want to know another sad thing?” Greg finished the dregs of his pint and signalled the barman for another. “I’ve been trying to work up the bollocks to talk to Mycroft for the better part of two years. If he’d so much as smiled at me in that time, well, things would sure be different now.”

“Jesus, Greg, why didn’t you talk to me? It’s not like I haven’t seen him often. Bugger picks me up off the street every couple of weeks it seems like.” John waved to the barman as well. “Christ, if he had said anything to me about it when we cooked up the whole ‘dating’ thing, I wouldn’t even be pissed at him. I’m just getting tired of being treated like I’m not worth talking to, only pushed into doing what they want.” He shook his head. “I can’t think of a single thing that Sherlock has lied to me about that I wouldn’t have gone along with him on if he’d just told me about it first.”

“So you would have duped me too?” Greg looked devastated as well as a bit drunk as the barman set fresh drinks down in front of the two of them.

“Nah,” John waved off this ridiculous notion. “I’d have told you right off, just asked you to hold off til we were done jerking Sherlock’s chain.” He chuckled. “Although now that I think about it, maybe we could have cooked something up against him, like he and I did with Sherlock. Maybe set you up with David here…”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “Don’t think I want to try to pull something over on the British Government. That would be sure to come back and bite us in the arse.”

John bobbed his head in agreement. “Fair point. Plus Sherlock would be pissed at me for the cases we’d have to take from Mycroft as payback.” 

Conversation trailed off as they all sipped at their drinks. In the relative quiet, a ringtone could be heard. John felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and pulled it out. 

“Huh, Mycroft. I wonder why he thinks I’d talk to him right now.” He tapped the ‘ignore’ icon and set the phone on the table only to have it ring again, immediately. He sighed and picked up his phone.

“Please John!” Mycroft implored him before he could say a word. “You are closer to Baker Street and can get there before any of my men…”

“What’s going on, Mycroft?”

“He has disabled all my cameras, but there is still one microphone he hasn’t found. It sounds like... please hurry, John. I’m truly afraid for him.”

“On my way.”

David arched a brow. “What? You’re going? Just like that? After the crap he’s pulled?”

“If it’s another bullshit story, I can always kill him later.” John dashed out of the pub with Greg on his heels.

 

~0~0~0~0~0~

 

Sherlock sat on the sofa with the coffee table pulled close to him, his kit open in front of him. He had gone to all three of his old dealers tonight and had scored from each of them. His combined haul was in front of him, as well as the largest syringe he could find at the flat. Fifty ccs at the concentration he was planning to mix would be enough to kill an elephant, or three.

There was no way John was coming back. He had truly fucked up. John was right, he was no better than Mary. There was nothing John had said earlier that was in anyway untrue. Nearly every interaction he had had with John over the years had some form of manipulation in it. It was what he had always hated about Mycroft, the constant need to control absolutely everything. He hadn’t even realized what a hypocrite he had been all this time.

Had he ever let John have an honest to goodness reaction to something? Oh, the reactions were always honest, John couldn’t be any other way, but he had always set the stage so that the honest reaction from John would be exactly what Sherlock wanted.

It was taking him ten times longer to mix things because he could hardly see for the tears streaming down his face. All the years of crying on cue for witnesses were nothing compared to the volume of liquid pouring out of him now. No worries, he’d be replacing at least 50 ccs of it shortly.

Finally, what was probably a 25% solution (or stronger) filled the syringe. He rolled up his sleeve and tied the tourniquet around his upper arm. He reached for the syringe….

“WHAT THE _HELL_ ARE YOU DOING?”

Sherlock fell off the edge of the sofa, banged his knees on the coffee table, and proceeded to the floor. He looked up to see a short, ash-blonde, wrathful angel swooping down on him. John reached toward him and he moved to lean into the touch….

...and John’s hands reached past him to scoop the syringe, drugs, and the rest of his kit off the table. Only now did he register the staggering rush of Lestrade’s footsteps up the stairs. He appeared in the doorway, gasping for breath.

John shoved all the miscellany into the carved wooden box and pressed it into Lestrade’s hands, heedless of the man trying to catch his breath.

“Dispose of this, please.” John pinned Sherlock with a glare, grabbed his arm, ascertained that there was no needle mark, released the tourniquet, and dropped him onto the sofa. He shoved the tourniquet into the box in Greg's hands and turned back to Sherlock. Never taking his eyes from Sherlock's, he pulled out his phone and dialed.

“Yeah. It’s me. Yeah, it was what you thought, but I got him. We’re going to have a little talk now. Kindly disable the last microphone.” He ended the call without waiting for a response.

John turned to Greg, whose colour was slowly returning to normal. John gestured to the kit in Greg’s hands.

“Why not take that to Mycroft? It seems you’re due to have a little chat with him.” 

“It seems so.” Greg descended the stairs with a great deal more dignity than he had come up them.

John turned back to face Sherlock. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared down at his flatmate, still sprawled on the sofa.

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

Sherlock was stunned. Why was John here? Why would he care at this point what happened to him? His behaviour towards John in this, in everything for that matter, was deplorable, unforgivable, inexcusable. 

Sherlock straightened himself to a sitting position and leaned forward sitting on the very edge of the sofa. He placed his elbows on his knees and buried his head in his hands. His long musician's fingers tangled in his hair and he pulled, hard, desperate to inflict _some_ form of pain upon himself. Slowly he loosed his fingers, and dared to glance up at John through his lashes. 

John stood there, waiting, arms still crossed, looking like nothing short of a supernova was going to budge him. The expression on his face was stern, and managed to convey that this would be Sherlock's last chance to be completely and totally honest with John. There would be no other opportunity to attempt to make amends. 

"John, I... "

"You need to stop right now and think. Think very carefully about what you want to say. As of right now, our relationship is going to change. How it changes is entirely up to you. I will no longer tolerate anything less than complete honesty. If I believe, for even a single moment, that you are being less than forthcoming, we are through. Now, what were you going to say?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, trying something out here. I'm publishing the one chapter I have ready in the hopes that it will help me get my butt in gear and get the rest of the story done! Here's hoping....

Chapter 8

 

Sherlock swallowed convulsively. He was shivering all over, beginning to hyperventilate. He gasped for breath, struggled for control. Sherlock pulled his feet up in front of him on the sofa, wrapped his arms around his legs and buried his face behind his knees. He let out several choking sobs. He couldn’t do this. He _had_ to do this. Slowly, as if it pained him, he loosened his arms, lowered his feet back to the floor, and wiped the tears from his face. They were replaced immediately, but there was no helping that right now. He took as deep a breath as he could manage and began.

“I want- no, I _need_ to start by saying that I am sorry John, for every single time I have ever been less than entirely honest with you. You have been the best, the _only_ friend I have ever been able to count on in my life. I should have trusted you, talked to you, listened to you, believed in you, the way you have always believed in me.

“I think the reason I always went for manipulation tactics was because I couldn't really believe that anyone would chose to be with me without them. Anyone I let simply react to me has always done so with derision. You were different, you said ‘amazing’ instead of ‘freak’, ‘brilliant’ instead of ‘psychopath’. I never knew what it was to actually care what someone thought of me, to _crave_ their approval. How could I risk you ever deciding I wasn’t worth it? That I wasn’t worth the angst and consternation you got from _everyone_ just for being associated with me? I never really directly _lied_ to you, just made sure I presented every situation to you so that you could only see it from one obvious point of view. Or I simply didn’t tell you anything. I know I should have let you make up your own mind on it all, but trust has never been my strong suit. The truth is, I have been in love with you since the pool, when you offered your life for mine. That was... unprecedented. The more time passed, the more I loved you, the more afraid I was that you might someday decide I wasn’t worth it, that I would lose you. The more afraid I became, the more I clung to manipulating you, or shutting you out. I guess I thought if I could control the situation enough, I would never lose you.” Sherlock laughed ruefully, the laugh morphing into a groan as he lowered his head, staring at the floor, not daring to look John in the face. Not deserving to.

“I can beg you for your forgiveness, but I don’t deserve it. I made you grieve for me for two years, without the slightest comprehension of what that did to you. It was easier for me. No matter what danger I was in, I knew you were fine, alive, and safe. You had no such comfort. Not only did you think I had killed myself, you felt you had pushed me into it. Even when I came back, I failed to be honest with you. I deduced that there were secrets and lies surrounding Mary, but I kept that from you too, and caused you nearly two more years of pain. There is nothing I can do to make up for the pain I have caused you with my deceptions and omissions. I. Am. Sorry. John.”

There was a somewhat ragged inhalation from where John was standing near the end of the sofa. The sound of a muffled clearing of a throat. Haltingly, Sherlock raised his head until his face was aimed towards John, although his eyes were still pinned to the floor. With great reluctance, he slowly raised his eyes up to John’s face and awaited his judgement. 

John ran a hand down his face. As his eyes came back into view, they were no longer looking at Sherlock. In fact they seemed to be looking everywhere _but_ at him. The skull poster got a moment’s notice, the yellow smiley face a twitch of his lips, the skull on the mantle received a good hard stare. Then his gaze landed upon his ratty broken-in armchair, the fabric so faded now it was impossible to tell the original color. John’s expression wobbled. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He turned back to Sherlock and opened his eyes.

“I believe you.” John turned his back on Sherlock and without another word, strode out of the sitting room, and mounted the stairs up to his room. 

Sherlock heard the sound of something scraping across the floor in what would roughly be the center of the room. John was pulling something out from under his bed? What was under….oh gods, his _suitcases_ ….

He completely stopped breathing as he catalogued the unmistakable sounds of John tossing the suitcases on his bed, opening his drawers and packing his clothes.

Sherlock choked back a pathetic sounding sob. It hadn’t been enough. John had believed him, but it hadn’t been enough. But then, how _could_ it have been? After the years of anguish he had caused this man, he could expect nothing different.

 

~0~0~0~0~0~

 

Greg grimaced at his reflection in the mirrored walls of the lift on his way up to Mycroft’s posh Belgravia flat. The penthouse, of course. The damn lift alone was almost the size of his bedroom. He would have really appreciated the element of surprise in confronting Mycroft at this point, not that it would give him much of an advantage. The man hadn’t accumulated the power he had by not being able to think on his feet. Instead of being able to storm up and demand entrance, the bloody doorman had called up to see if Mycroft would admit him. Even now, he was feeling more like a peasant begging for audience with the king than the Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard that he was. He could tell the doorman had wanted to search the Tesco bag he was bringing in, and he knew there would be no way he’d be let in then. Instead, he had flashed his new ID badge (Sherlock had nicked another one just last week) and strode past the man. 

Greg was startled from his thoughts as the back of the lift opened directly into the penthouse flat. He turned and strode into a posh entry hall, decorated in cream and white with dark wood accent pieces. The flat was silent and Mycroft was nowhere to be seen. Greg stepped forward, concern beginning to flood through him.

“Mycroft?”

“In here, Gregory.” He could tell Mycroft had projected his voice, but it was faint nonetheless. How the hell big was this flat?

Greg made his way through a large formal sitting room, formal dining room, enormous kitchen, a slightly smaller, less formal, sitting room, and into a hallway with several doors off of each side as well as one at the very end. The first two were directly across from each and both doors hung open halfway. The door on the right opened into a large study with the required gargantuan desk, computer, several phones, and seating for eight people. It was as devoid of inhabitants as the rest of the flat.

The door on the left of the hall opened into a smallish (compared with all of the other rooms he had seen so far) library. In addition to the ceiling high bookshelves lining the majority of the room, there were stunning floor to ceiling windows along one wall, but the drapes were barely parted near the middle. Near the window was a wingback chair and footstool, and there were two other identical chairs in front of, and angled toward, the functioning fireplace.

Between the two chairs was a delicate pedestal table supporting a large, but half empty decanter and an empty crystal whiskey glass. In this room there was, finally, a Mycroft, with a matching crystal glass, also empty, in his hand.

The words ‘a Mycroft’ were odd, but fitting in his mind. This was a version of Mycroft which he had never seen. This man looked open, vulnerable, shattered, and, dare he think it, emotional. 

Greg was willing to bet the decanter had been full less than two hours ago.

“John thought you should have this,”Greg said softly as he stepped forward and placed the Tesco bag in Mycroft’s lap. He stepped back and watched Mycroft’s face closely.

With a resigned sigh, Mycroft very carefully, too carefully to be anywhere near sober, placed his crystal tumbler on the table and nudged the bag open with one hand. As he took in the contents of the bag, and the alarming size of the syringe, he let out a choked gasp and covered his face with his other hand. Where he had been pale before, now he was ashen. 

“Thank whatever powers that be for John Watson,” Mycroft murmured, almost to himself.

“Are you alright, Mycroft?”

Mycroft’s hand dropped from his face as he turned glassy eyes toward Greg. 

“Why in the world would I be ‘alright’, Gregory? If I have ever so grossly miscalculated before in my life, I cannot recall it now. With one, how did you put it, ‘scheme’, I nearly caused my brother to kill himself, for real this time, completely alienated the only friend that he has ever had, and thoroughly eliminated any chance of having a relationship of my own. In what universe would having any one of those events occur, let alone all three, allow me to be ‘alright’?”

Greg slipped off his coat and tossed it over the back of the unoccupied chair. His suit jacket followed, he removed his cheap tie, unbuttoned his collar, and he unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeves as well. Finally deeming himself comfortable enough for this conversation, he stepped forward, reached for the decanter, and poured himself a healthy shot into the empty tumbler. On second thought, that much whiskey couldn’t possibly be healthy.

Mycroft quirked a brow at the nearly full glass.

“What?” Greg muttered, knocking back a third of the glass. “I am way too sober to be having this conversation.”

“Honestly, I am quite surprised that you are willing to converse with me at all.”

Greg smirked at the very slow, precise way Mycroft was enunciating his words. Trust the posh git to have perfect diction even when he was three sheets to the wind. His speech may have been clear, but his hands trembled slightly as he lowered the bag to the floor by his chair.

Greg stepped around the empty chair and collapsed into it. He knocked back another not so healthy portion of his whiskey and debated with himself over the wisdom of starting this conversation while drinking. Or sober. Or at all. God, what was he really setting himself up for here? It was flattering and all to know that Mycroft was interested in him enough to make a play for him, but then again, Mycroft was not exactly known for plain dealing. After all of the lies and head games the ex-wife had pulled on him, did he really want to open himself up to that once more?

When it came down to it, as attractive and fascinating as he found Mycroft, he just couldn’t force himself to go through all of that rubbish again. There was only one way it would ever work, and Mycroft would have to take him seriously from the start. There could be no room for any misunderstanding.

Decision made, Greg finished his drink, set the glass down on the table, then unstoppered the decanter. He held it briefly up to the firelight and watched the light play in the amber liquid. He sighed, then proceeded to fill both glasses halfway before setting the crystal stopper gently back in place. 

Reclaiming his glass, he took a more reasonable sip this time. He leant back in his chair and contemplated the fire. 

“What did you mean, just now?” Greg asked softly. “About eliminating your chances for a relationship? Sounds awfully final. Like you only had one shot at it. Like you’ve already given up?”

Mycroft sighed heavily, sounding defeated. 

“A man in my position has very few opportunities for...meaningful relationships. Dalliances could happen at nearly any time, but I have never felt them worth the effort. A relationship, especially one with the wrong person, has the possibility to be disastrous on many levels. So many things can be construed as weakness, it would take someone of significant...fortitude...to willingly subject themselves to my brand of mayhem. I long ago resigned myself to a solitary lifestyle, and have never regretted it. Until a detective sergeant, who stood nothing to gain for doing so, took interest in a cocaine addict and gave him more reason get clean than I ever could.” 

Mycroft extended a long, pale, hand and plucked his glass up from the table. He took a measured sip and continued. 

“I am quite ashamed of my actions over the last few days. As satisfying as it was to keep Sherlock guessing, and as necessary as it _was_ that he learn to communicate with his doctor, I must admit that I really did not consider the ramifications that my actions would have on both John and yourself. I am capable of predicting the actions and decisions of world leaders and terrorist organizations, but I did not for one minute consider how my machinations would offend someone who has already gone through so much emotional strife. I knew that the main reason for the breakdown of your marriage was your wife's infidelity, as well as her continual lies about her affairs. I am sorry, Gregory. I will apologize to Dr. Watson personally should I be granted the opportunity to do so.”

"Apology accepted. At least as far as it goes. Question: what do you mean it ‘was’ necessary for Sherlock to learn to talk to John. I would say that it ‘is’ necessary.”

Mycroft coughed a sarcastic laugh. “Do you really think it matters if he learns his lesson now? When it is too late to possibly make amends? The contents of this bag prove that he has learnt the lesson and knows the futility of hoping for forgiveness.”

Greg took swallow of his drink, smiled tightly, and shook his head. “The fact that you have that bag, and it’s contents, in your possession right now, is proof that John still cares what happens to Sherlock. If John didn’t care, he would have left a long time ago, hell, he would never have given him a chance when he came back after two years. John told me about the whole waiter thing. If he went and talked to Sherlock after he pulled that nonsense, I think he’ll talk to him now.”

Mycroft pondered this in silence for several moments. “What about you Gregory? Where do you stand on the whole ‘second chances’ issue? Have I offended you too much to consider the possibility of being anything other than business associates?”

“That is a direct question, Mycroft. And one that I am nowhere near sober enough to answer right now. For now, I think it’s best if we get you poured into bed and deal with the rest of your ‘brand of mayhem’ in the morning.”

With that, Greg stood and swayed slightly. He gently placed his nearly empty glass on the elegant table and reached out a hand to Mycroft.

Mycroft blinked slowly, his glassy eyes finally beginning to show the effects of his overindulgence. He placed his hand in Greg’s and allowed him to assist him in rising. Mycroft stumbled slightly, leaning heavily on the detective for a moment before righting himself. As a purely preventative measure, or so he told himself, Greg slipped an arm around Mycroft’s waist and proceeded to guide him out of the room and down the hall.

“Which one is yours?” Mycroft was now leaning heavily into Greg as they made their way out into the hall. Greg huffed with the effort of keeping both of their less than coordinated bodies upright.

“End of the hall.” Mycroft’s words were beginning to slur. Great, the git would pick now to display the effects of the alcohol.

With a herculean effort, Greg navigated them both to the room at the end of the hall, where the door was slightly ajar. Room, hah. It was a bloody suite, complete with a formal sitting room, in which they now stood. Manoeuvring Mycroft to the far end of the generous space became more difficult with every step. Upon reaching the closed double doors made of the same posh dark wood as the pieces in the entryway, Greg realised a significant difficulty. It was taking both hands to keep Mycroft mostly vertical, and tall and gangly as he may be, the git was heavier than he looked. Greg remembered when his girls were small and throwing tantrums, how they would go limp in his arms and nearly drag him to the ground in the process. He knew that if he set Mycroft down to open the doors, the chances were small that he could get him back up again, given his own less than sober state. It would serve the bastard right if he just dumped him on the floor, but he and Mycroft were of an age, and Greg certainly knew how wretched _he_ would feel kipping on the floor for the night.

“Mycroft? Myc? You still with me? C’mon, mate, can you get the bloody door open?” In response Mycroft snuffled and buried his nose in Greg’s neck, inhaled deeply, and mumbled something that may or may not have been ‘smell good’.

Turning the inebriated man to face him, Greg flung Mycroft’s arms around his neck and grasped him tightly about the waist. Quickly, before Mycroft could overbalance them both, Greg shot a hand out and turned the knob, shoving the door in.

Bloody everlasting hell. He hadn’t expected the room to be small, but was there any reason for it to be big enough for most contact sports?

Greg staggered across to the king size bed, dragging Mycroft more than anything else. He managed to hoist Mycroft up so he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his arms still around Greg’s neck. He started to twist Mycroft to one side in order to lay him down when…

“Shite!” Mycroft's fingers had become tangled in Greg’s open collar, and as he lay back the upper _four_ buttons of his shirt were torn off and went flying around the room. Bollocks. The only buttons left on the damn thing were the very top, which he had unbuttoned earlier, and the very bottom, which was still tucked into his trousers. 

Greg shrugged out of the now useless garment, dropping it to the floor, and glowered at the nearly unconscious man on the bed. With a sigh, he reached down to remove Mycroft’s shoes, wondering why he should care if they mussed the undoubtedly pricey duvet. He placed the expensive Italian loafers by the side of the bed and then reached up to take off the silk tie.

As he slid the tie clear of the collar of the tailored shirt, Mycroft’s eyes shot open. He half sat up and reached over to clutch Greg’s arm, the squared off corners of his manicured nails digging painfully into the flesh and causing Greg to wince.

“Gregory! Where are you going?” The words were so slurred at this point, Greg could barely make out his own name.

“Don’t worry, Myc. I’m here. You’re fine. Just go to sleep.” Mycroft’s eyes closed again and he slumped back onto the bed. 

“You are going to feel like the floor of a taxicab come morning.” Greg smirked down at the now blessedly unconscious Mycroft. He hadn’t planned on spending the night, but he wouldn’t miss this hangover for the world.

He backtracked to the library to retrieve his coat for use as a blanket, this wasn’t the kind of place to have an afghan on the back of the couch. He stopped when he saw the Tesco bag on the floor next to Mycroft's chair. As tired and tipsy as he was, he just couldn’t leave the drugs lying around. He rooted around in the bag and plucked out the syringe.

A quick check revealed one of the hallway doors to open into well appointed bathroom. Greg uncapped the syringe, squirted the lethal mixture into the toilet, and flushed. The syringe was one of the old style glass ones, so Greg just bent the needle on it rather than break it and get glass on the floor. He tossed it in the bin. Good enough for now.

He headed out to the more informal sitting room, kicked off his shoes, and stretched out on the sofa, draping his coat over him. The morning should definitely be interesting.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, it took me about two weeks longer than I wanted it to, but hey, two updates in less than a month! I’m on a roll! The good news is, I have most of Chapter 10 done already. The bad news is my temp job is winding up, so I need to be looking for something else, and who knows what hours I’ll end up with. I’ll do my best to keep you posted.

Chapter 9

 

Sherlock cringed as the suitcases thumped from John’s bed to rest on the floor. He winced at the sound of John’s door thudding against the wall when he shouldered it open while carrying his bags. He began to tremble upon hearing John’s uneven footsteps on the stairs as he labored under the bulky weight of the two large cases. Sherlock’s breathing began to hitch as John manoeuvered the luggage into the sitting room before setting them down. Why bother with the effort, he wondered in a detached manner. He’d just have to struggle to get them back out again. He closed his eyes and waited for the farewell that would very likely be the last words he would hear from John Watson.

Only silence greeted his ears. He would never know where he came by the courage to do so, but he slowly opened his eyes and turned his head to gaze to at John who was staring down at him with a grim smile on his face. Was he so relieved then? For their farce of a friendship to be over with?

Sherlock cleared his throat. If he could get an answer to this one question, maybe, just maybe, not all was lost.

“Where will you go?” He barely managed a whisper.

John’s lips twitched. “Not too far. Not too far at all.” He hoisted up the suitcases and jockeyed them through the doorway into the kitchen. Then down the hall. The thump of John’s foot nudging Sherlock’s door open wider resounded through his very soul. The dual thuds of the bags landing on the floor in Sherlock’s room were like a shockwave. Was John kicking _him_ out? There was no way that he could be suggesting….

John strode back down the hall to the sitting room, grim smile still on his face. He placed his hands on his hips and pinned Sherlock to the sofa with his best captain’s glare.

“Here’s the deal. If there is any way we are going to make this work…”

He got no farther. Sherlock positively launched himself across the space separating them. The temptation to mash their mouths together was nearly overwhelming, but he had to be sure. He had to know _exactly_ what John meant, what he wanted. He gripped John’s upper arms and locked their eyes together.

"What do you mean? Make what work? Why are your things in my room? Aren't you leaving? Why aren't you leaving?"

John sighed and placed his hands on Sherlock’s chest, pushing him back just slightly.

“You said your piece. Now it’s your turn to listen. I meant what I said earlier. Our relationship is changing as of now. I want _nothing_ more than to have _everything_ with you. I can’t imagine my life without you in it. The life I had before you does not bear contemplating. The life I had while you were gone was something I wish I could ‘delete’. But I need to know that you value me just as much.” John paused as he placed a finger upon Sherlock’s lips to stop his protest. “Hear me out. I know you care for me. The lengths to which you go for me are nothing short of extreme. Here’s the thing though, caring for me is not the same as trusting me. Don’t you realise that if I haven’t left by now, I’m not going to?” He dropped his hand and placed it back on Sherlock’s chest.

“You did leave, though. You left me when you married Mary.”

“And you left me when you jumped off of Bart’s. We’ve already hurt each other so badly. And yet here we are.” John peeled his eyes away from Sherlock, looked down at the floor, took a shuddery breath, and looked back up at his friend. “I will probably always forgive you. I don’t think I can think of any one thing you can do that would make me leave permanently. But it will kill something in me every time, knowing that you didn’t trust me, knowing that for whatever reason, I’m not good enough to deserve that trust. And one day there won’t be enough left of me to believe that I should be here with you.”

Sherlock gasped, his hands gripping John’s arms that much tighter. How could he not have seen that he was hurting John so deeply? He was the most observant man in the world. How could he not have known this? His breath came in pants as he struggled for the words that would tell John how important he was, that there was nothing more important, that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for him.

Sherlock pulled John in and slid his long arms completely around John’s compact body. He buried his nose in John’s hair and breathed in, deeply. He indulged himself with John’s scent, shamelessly using it to calm himself enough to speak. As he settled, he swore to himself that John would never forgive him again, he would never have to. 

After another reassuring breath, he spoke softly, reverently.

“I swear to you, John, I will never deceive you in any way, ever again. I will need your help, I know I won’t be able to earn, or deserve, your trust for some time. If need be, I will spend the rest of my days trying to prove myself worthy of you, of your trust.”

“Deal.” John heaved a sigh, finally letting the stress of the last few days bleed out of him. He looked up at the man he couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to be able to claim. “Now shut up and kiss me, you berk.”

The sight of Sherlock’s eyes widening as his pupils dilated was positively erotic. Sherlock slowly, hesitantly, lowered his lips to John’s. A bare breath away, he paused, still uncertain of his welcome. How could he possibly deserve this? How deeply must John care for him to be able to forgive him for all the hurt he had caused?

John slid his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and snarled with frustration as he pulled him down and closed the gap between them. 

All the movies, plays, books, fairy tales, songs, and poems that talked about love’s first kiss had it all wrong. It wasn’t beautiful. The earth didn’t shift. There were no fireworks. It certainly wasn’t romantic in any way. This kiss was an act of desperation. It was messy, wet, hard, and violent. This was a kiss so long overdue it was painful.

The clash of teeth and tongues ended as abruptly as it began. They both pulled back, gasping for breath, pupils blown and eyes wild. They nearly wound up sprawled on the sitting room floor in the flurry of limbs as each tried to manoeuvre the other back towards the bedroom. When the realisation dawned that they each had the same goal, they began to move more cooperatively. Sherlock relented and allowed John to push him backwards down the hall, indeed began to drag John with him when he deemed the pace not quick enough.

They burst into the bedroom and nearly tumbled over John’s suitcases, still sitting in the middle of the floor. John steadied him, his hands fisted in Sherlock’s fitted dress shirt. Steering him roughly back towards the bed, he let go of the shirt in favor of undoing the buttons. The third one stuck and John lost any remaining patience. He grabbed the open edges and tore the offending garment wide open. He shoved it off Sherlock’s shoulders and tugged the shirt down his arms, but then instead of dropping it to the floor, John pulled it tight, pinning Sherlock’s arms to his sides.

The noise that emitted from Sherlock at John’s frantic move defied classification. He could break this hold easily if he chose to, but the token struggle he gave was designed to play into the obvious lust the situation evoked in John.

“Look at you.” John panted. “So gorgeous. So ready for me. You’d let me do damn near anything right now, wouldn’t you?”

“No.” Sherlock breathed. John pulled back slightly, doubt crossing his face. Was he pushing Sherlock too hard?

Sherlock was quick to reassure him. “Not _damn near_ anything, John. Anything. Anything at all.”

They gasped simultaneously; John at the images called forth by Sherlock’s words, Sherlock at the speed with which John’s pupils dilated. John tucked the tails of Sherlock’s dress shirt behind him, and gave a gentle shove, sending Sherlock backward onto the bed and pinning his arms at his sides. He wasted no time in climbing on top of Sherlock and straddling his hips, further restraining him. 

Bracing his forearms on either side of Sherlock's face, John lowered himself to plunder the full lips that had been taunting him for years now. The gasp that escaped Sherlock seemed to shudder through both of them, and his small, futile movements to attempt to break free only increased their desperation.

This time the groan was John's as he felt Sherlock thicken and harden beneath him even through the layers of fabric still between them. He tangled his fingers in the silky curls and pulled gently to expose the long column of his throat. He trailed tender, nibbling, kisses down the creamy skin before sinking his teeth into the prominent collarbone. 

"John!" Sherlock cried out desperately. "John, please. Tie me up, handcuff me, do whatever you want. Later. Please, right now I need to touch you."

John released the now tender skin and sat up, smirking. The smirk quickly vanished at the sensation of Sherlock's erection pressing more firmly against him with the shift in position. Nearly dizzy with the knowledge that _he_ had caused that reaction, John ground down, rutting firmly against the detective's arousal. 

Sherlock's eyes flew open, and the look of panicked lust unleashed something merciless inside John. Reaching down, he ran his hands up the marble chest until his fingers made contact with the nipples of the now thrashing man beneath him. 

"John- "

Simultaneously, John gently squeezed the pebbled flesh and ground down against Sherlock's cock. 

Sherlock let out a cry of pleasured despair as he came, helplessly thrusting upwards, doing what little he could to increase the contact between them. 

After the last pulse of release shuddered through him, Sherlock collapsed back upon the bed, eyes squeezed shut again, blushing scarlet and thoroughly humiliated at his lack of control. He couldn't bear to look at John right now. He couldn't stand deducing how disappointed he must be with Sherlock's inexperience. 

It was no small shock when he felt John lean all the way forward, corrall his arms around Sherlock's torso, nuzzle at his ear and whisper, "So beautiful, that was absolutely perfect, love." 

For the second time in as many minutes, Sherlock's eyes flew open in shock. He searched John's face, desperate for signs that he wasn't lying. The eyes smiling down at him were pleased and satisfied, triumphant even, but he could swear that John hadn't-

"Perfect? But, John, you didn't...and I, I didn't mean to... " Sherlock trailed off, silently wishing for a crater to open up, swallow him, and end this torturous experience. 

"No, I didn't. Not yet. But watching you come apart like that? Knowing _I_ did that to you? That was _brilliant._ Amazing. Fantastic. Perfection." John shimmied carefully down Sherlock's body, finally releasing his arms, ghosting his hands down the exposed skin, until he was kneeling between Sherlock's knees, his fingertips rested lightly on his belt. "Now, shall we get you out of these wet things?" he murmured with a teasing grin.

Sherlock stared open-mouthed at his- what? Boyfriend? Ludicrous. Flatmate? So much more than that. Friend? Definitely true, but nowhere near an adequate label. Lover? Accurate, finally, but absolutely reeking of sentiment. He finally decided it didn't matter, because whatever the label, the possessive pronoun was correct. John was _his_. 

That train of thought must have taken an awkward amount of time, as Sherlock became aware that John was now looking at him uncertainly from where he knelt next to the bed. Wanting to wipe that expression from his face, and never see it again, the detective sat up suddenly, finally shrugged free of the now hated shirt, and folded his arms around John. _His_ John. 

Sherlock buried his nose in John's hair and unabashedly breathed him in. 

"You are the one who is amazing, John. And, yes, I would love to 'get out of these wet things', as you so quaintly put it. And you are definitely overdressed." Sherlock loosened his hold and pulled back slightly, smiling down at John, but unable to keep himself from blushing at how clingy he was feeling now. 

John's uncertainty vanished with Sherlock's reassurance, but he felt the need to give some of his own. 

"Sorry I pinned you down like that. I should have let you up right away when you asked. I don't know what came over me. You just looked so...incredible, but it was wrong of me if you didn't want it." While he had been speaking, John had worked the buckle open and unfastened Sherlock's trousers. Now, however, he stopped, unsure if his earlier actions negated his welcome. 

"If I didn't want it? I thought it was rather apparent how badly I _did_ want it. I was a bit, unprepared, for the, um, _intensity_ of the...experience." Blushing again, or perhaps just more deeply than he already had been, Sherlock glanced away, embarrassed all over again at his abrupt release. 

Avoiding John's gaze, Sherlock hooked his thumbs into the waistbands of his trousers and pants, lifted his hips, and pulled them both down. He reached back and grabbed his ruined shirt, using it to wipe away his ejaculate. He dropped the garment on the floor and looked at John. 

The frank admiration in John's gaze at his display was nearly enough to make Sherlock preen. One second, John was sitting back on his heels, and the next, he had surged forward, snaking a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and pulling him down into a kiss as Sherlock leant in to meet him. 

John came up off of his knees and began to press Sherlock back into the bed again. Oh no, Sherlock wasn't falling for that again. He wrapped his arms around John and flipped them so that now he was pinning John underneath him. He quickly moved a hand up to John's collar. 

"Why are you still wearing so many clothes?" Sherlock growled as he began to make quick work of the buttons. Sherlock shifted his weight slightly to grant him better access to John's clothing. 

After a somewhat surprised gasp, John quickly moved to assist in removing his clothes. He rapidly undid his trousers and shoved them down, his pants along with them. As he kicked them off, Sherlock spread his shirt wide, yanking it off of him completely. There would be nothing between them _this_ time! 

As John lay back from hurling his garb onto the floor, Sherlock inhaled sharply. John's eyes snapped to his partner’s face and despaired at what they saw there. Sherlock had an expression of shock, eyes wide, mouth open, and he had seemed to stop breathing. John looked away and reached for the edge of the duvet to to cover himself. He knew he should have turned off the lights first.

“I’m sorry, I know I’m not much to look at. I’m definitely getting the better deal here….” his attempt at humor fell flat as his voice faltered.

With an audible snap, Sherlock shut his mouth and shook himself out of his reverie. Now that John was laid out before him, he could easily see why John not only modest, but why he tended to overcompensate with layers.

John was covered with scars. The bullet wound in his left shoulder wasn’t even the most severe of his injuries. Some were quite old, faded at the edges, others more recent, perhaps from his last months in Afghanistan. There was evidence of several lacerations, most with stitch or staple marks next to them, a number of puckered indentations left by puncture wounds, and more than a few burns. And that was just what was visible on the front of him. Every last mark on him was fascinating, proof of this incredible man’s bravery.

Realising that John was trying to cover himself, Sherlock determinedly grasped both of John’s hands in his own. John couldn’t possibly be ashamed of this, could he? It was readily apparent that John wanted nothing more than to hide himself from Sherlock’s observant gaze right now. 

“John?” Sherlock murmured, almost to himself. “John, please look at me.”

John took a deep breath, let it out all in a whoosh. He slowly raised his eyes to Sherlock’s.

“It’s alright, John. Your scars don’t bother me. Not at all. Would you like to see why?”

John nodded, without uttering a sound.

Sherlock released John’s wrists, patting them gently for reassurance, before easing his way backwards off the bed. He stood, took his own deep breath, and turned his back to John.

He winced at the harsh gasp to come from behind him. There was a rustle of blankets and then the feel of John’s fingertips tracing lightly over the maze of injuries marring the otherwise alabaster skin. The raised burns, jagged cuts, outright carvings, and the roughly oval patch where the skin had been completely peeled away stood out in sharp relief.

“When did this happen, Sherlock? Was it while you were...away?”

Sherlock nodded, the firm jerk of his head causing his curls to bounce slightly.

“I was dismantling the last strand of Moriarty’s web, in Serbia, when I was captured. They held me for three months before Mycroft was able to find and extract me. They questioned me rather vigorously, and one of them was rather... creative.”

“Did they….did they...do anything else?” The fear in John’s voice was tangible.

“No!” Sherlock was quick to reassure. “I was spared that at least. As ghastly as many of them look, they really are, mostly, surface injuries.”

John shuddered, his hands leaving Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock turned to find him sitting on the bed, his head in his hands.

“You were still healing, weren’t you? When you came back. In the restaurant, when I threw you onto your back on the floor and throttled you. Gods, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. I should have….”

Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed in front of him, ran his hand gently across John’s cheek.

“Nonsense, John. You couldn’t have known. And instead of being a reasonable human being, I told you I was alive in the most inflammatory manner possible. I did notice that you no longer avoided my nose and teeth, though.”

As intended, the joke brought a wry smile to John’s lips. 

“We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?”John shook his head ruefully. He lay back on the bed, holding his arms out, and Sherlock lay beside him. 

“Will you tell me about yours? Many are far too old for you have got them in Afghanistan.”

“Well, being the smallest, scrawniest and poorest kid in my year wasn’t exactly advantageous. There was a reason the Army appealed to me so much. By the time I had got through my initial training, there were few willing to mess with me, no matter how much bigger than me they were.”

“No wonder you always got so irate whenever anyone ridiculed me. You were bullied yourself.”

“I've never been able to tolerate those who get their kicks at someone else's expense.” He sighed regretfully. “I'm not ashamed of my scars, but they are a bit of a mood killer.”

“Hmmm, I wouldn't say that.” Sherlock murmured. He shifted until he was on all fours, caging John with his ridiculously long limbs. Dropping down to his elbows, Sherlock started with John’s left shoulder.

Now that he had John exactly where he wanted him, Sherlock was determined to take his time, learn every inch of this extraordinary man, catalogue every moment. He nuzzled gently, inhaling and taking in the heady scent of him. Ghosting his lips over the damaged tissue, he noted every change in texture, and going by John’s reactions, the relative sensitivity of each area. When his tongue came into play, tracing the border of the extensive scar, John gasped, his abdominals clenching as he tried to hold still.

He could have spent much longer gleaning every iota of information from that wound, but he had much more ground to cover. He drifted down, pressing light kisses as he went to a roughened patch along John’s ribs. Road rash. John had never expressed an interest in motorcycles or skateboards and this scar was quite old so…

“A couple of the bigger kids, I think I was maybe 7, dragged me behind their bikes. There’s more of that one on the side of my leg.”

Anger flared through Sherlock, tempered only by the fact that he had John naked and in bed with him. He ran his tongue over the entire scar, nipping lightly as he finished claiming that spot. Shifting more to the center, he came across a cluster of puffy raised marks, much more recent, about the same age as the wound on his shoulder. Shrapnel. Afghanistan.

“About 3 months before my shoulder. IED. Looks worse than it was. No major penetration, I was back on duty 10 days later.”

All across his torso, hips, and legs, Sherlock inventoried, catalogued, and worshipped each mark he found. Some angered him, others were simply the result of being in a dangerous place at a dangerous time. When he worked his way back up, to savor John’s lips again, he found a small pucker near his hairline, it wasn’t a significant size, hadn’t been a dangerous wound in and of itself, but it was recognizable as one of John’s injuries when Sherlock had dragged him from the bonfire. 

By the time Sherlock had finished, at least with John’s front, the message was clear. These were old wounds, from an old life. They no longer held the power to hurt anyone. Sherlock had his own scars, and if John could deal with those, then these were of no matter either. 

He kissed and licked the small pucker, then moved down John’s jawline, finally capturing his lips again. The mood was different now, not the lust-fueled frenzy of earlier, but no less passionate. 

Sherlock lowered himself more completely onto John, needing the contact more than anything. Between the kissing, the skin on skin, and the years it had taken them to get here, it wasn’t long before the sense of urgency returned to them. Kisses became more urgent, hands aggressively sought out hair, nipples, buttocks, and aching hard cocks.

“John, I need…” Sherlock gasped, not wanting to let go for even a moment for fear that this was only a dream.

“Sher-, what is it? What do you need?” John panted against Sherlock’s neck.

“I need you...inside me.”

A full body shudder jolted through John’s frame. He struggled to maintain control and not come just from hearing the desperate need in his lover’s voice.

“Are you sure?” At Sherlock’s firm nod, John choked out. “Oh gods, yes.”

Without missing a beat, John grasped Sherlock firmly and flipped them. He held the other man to him, attempting to communicate the depth to which he was treasured.

“Please, Sher, tell me,” John begged.

“What, John? Anything.”

“Please tell me you have lube.”

A deep baritone chuckle escaped Sherlock’s chest. “Night table. Drawer.”

John lunged for the drawer, searching for only a moment before retrieving a fairly new tube. He reclaimed his spot, kneeling between Sherlock’s legs, flipped open the cap and coated his fingers with the viscous substance.

Stealing one last kiss, John began to work his way down Sherlock’s torso pausing to lick at a nipple, nip at a rib, dip his tongue into a navel. He shifted again, now lying mostly prone. He took Sherlock in one hand, and slowly began to circle his puckered hole with the slick fingers on his other hand.

He felt Sherlock involuntarily tense up. Distraction. That was his best bet. Locking eyes with the most important person in his life, John very purposefully ran his cheek along the side of Sherlock's pale cock, and as his chin reached the tip, came back down and smoothly took him into his mouth. 

Sherlock gasped and his head dropped back onto the bed. At the sharp intake of breath, John slid his finger in up to the first knuckle. Sherlock's long fingers fisted in the sheets, making the fine muscles of his arms stand out. He tried to stifle a deep groan. 

“Oh gods, Sherlock. Don't hold it in. Let me hear you.”

John began to work farther down with his mouth, while working farther in with his finger. When Sherlock began to thrust forward into his mouth, and then backward onto his hand, John slipped a second finger in. 

“John!” Sherlock cried out. “Please, I'm ready.”

“Not yet, patience.” 

On the next thrust, he slipped a third finger in. 

The keening whine that erupted from Sherlock was easily the hottest sound John Watson had ever heard. 

John surged forward, lining himself up. In one move, he slid his fingers out, and began to press forward, shuddering violently as the head of his cock slipped past the ring of muscle to plunge deep inside his partner. 

Sherlock howled. There was no other word for it. It was enough to make John pull back, fearing that he had hurt the person who meant the most to him. 

Sherlock was having none of it. His hands flew to John's hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, holding him in place. 

“Don't you dare. Stay right there.” Sherlock panted heavily. “Give me a moment. God, John. You're perfect. God. Don't ever leave me.”

“Never. It will never happen. I promise.” John pulled one of Sherlock's hands off of his hip, brought it up to his lips, kissed the knuckles tenderly. He felt the tight heat around him relax, if only slightly. “That's it. Ready?”

At Sherlock's tension filled nod, he began to move.

Slowly.

Inch by creeping inch, John took possession of Sherlock Holmes. Leaning forward as far as he could, pulling Sherlock towards him the rest of the way, he took possession of that luscious mouth. His hands drifted over and possessed every inch of skin he could reach. With each stroke, he claimed possession of every inch of the genius, inside and out; and Sherlock gave it all willingly. 

The shallow, measured thrusts were giving way to something more urgent, more primal. As their pace picked up, John shifted slightly, changing his angle, searching… 

Sherlock felt as though lightning crackled over the entire surface of his skin. His entire body tensed at the same moment that his mind went completely quiet. Another nudge to the same spot shattered whatever spell had contained him, and Sherlock began to shudder. He gasped, panted, clenched every muscle in his body, gripped John’s hips harder, digging his nails in. Anything to fight down the urge to come. It was a losing battle.

John gazed down at his partner. Seeing him straining, struggling for control, resisting with everything in him, was more than he could bear. He picked up the pace, thrusting harder, hitting that sensitive spot again and again.

“Come on, love, let me see you. Let it all go.”

With a high-pitched cry, Sherlock arched his back and came. The ropes of semen splashed over his stomach and chest. His whole core seized around John, still moving inside him. He was so tight around him, he could feel the instant that John hardened even more and began to empty inside of him. 

With a guttural growl, John managed a few more thrusts, then allowed himself to fall the few inches that had separated them. He wrapped his arms completely around Sherlock’s torso and held him close, heedless of the mess between them. He panted heavily into Sherlock’s shoulder, then, kissing his way up to nuzzle at his ear he whispered, “You’re amazing, Sherlock. I love you.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around his beau’s back, determined not to let him go. Ever. 

“I love you too, John. I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my first time writing explicit, let me know how I did!


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

 

Pain. Blinding pain. His eyes weren’t even open yet, but the glare spiking through his eyelids was enough to tell him that doing so would be a mistake. Unfortunately, his need for the bathroom was shortly going to trump his need to keep his eyes shut. It felt like he was in his bed, but he had no memory of getting there. Dangerous to make assumptions.

Cautiously peering through a narrow slit, he groaned in agony. What had possessed his decorators to make everything _white_? The glare caused by the invading sunlight was sure to kill him. Or perhaps he simply wished it would. At least he had confirmed his location. His bedroom. From here he would be able to navigate the entire flat without opening his eyes.

He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The abrupt change in orientation threw his equilibrium into what could only be described as a ‘tizzy’. If he _didn’t_ open his eyes, his _white_ carpet would suffer the consequences.

Resolutely, Mycroft opened his eyes. It only took a moment to steady himself before snapping them shut again. Odd. He was still completely dressed, sans shoes and tie. The tie was on his night table, his shoes neatly laid by his bed, incongruously next to a white rag on the floor.

Sliding off the bed, he staggered into the master bath and took care of his most urgent needs. He washed his hands and splashed some water over his face. Gods, he was slow today. He straightened and felt a bit triumphant when he didn’t fall over.

Wait.

Rag? Not a rag, a dress shirt, not one of his own. Torn. Buttons gone. Shoes by the bed, not removed by himself. Who…. _Gregory_.

Dear Lord, what had happened last night? Once he heard from John Watson (he really must see about getting a national holiday for that man) that Sherlock was alright, he had begun to console himself over his greatest failure. The call from the doorman announcing Gregory Lestrade had been unexpected. He had continued to drink while awaiting the dressing down he was sure to receive from the DI.

He vaguely remembered Gregory gifting him with Sherlock’s drug kit, complete with loaded syringe. Thank heavens it was still loaded. He remembered nothing else.

Now, there was Gregory’s shirt, torn, most likely ripped off of the man, on the floor next to his bed. He had to find him, find out what happened. How badly had he messed up _this_ time?

He made his way back through the bedroom, through his sitting room, and into the hall. The flat was completely silent. He braced himself with a hand on the wall as he approached the main area of the flat.

His stomach gave a ghastly lurch and he had no choice but to head into the bathroom off the hall. He splashed more water on his face and that seemed to fend off the worst of the nausea. His head was bowed down, letting the water drip off, when he spied the bin. What was…? Sherlock’s syringe. Empty. The needle bent where it had struck the bottom of the bin.

_No_.

What had he _done_?

He raced down the rest of the hall and burst into the sitting room. For all his haziness, he could only see one thing, and that he saw in ultra high def clarity.

On the sofa.

Gregory.

Unconscious.

Arm flung out.

Swollen red welt at the elbow.

_“Gregory!”_

Mycroft flung himself across the room and collapsed next to the sofa, whipping the coat from the DI’s unconscious form. Relief flooded through his entire being as the sleeping man began to stir.

“Myc?” He blinked and shifted up onto an elbow as he took in the trembling British Government kneeling on the floor next to him.

“Mycroft? What’s the matter? You ok?”

“You’re alright. Thank heavens, you’re alright.” He gasped a few times as he tried to get control of his breathing. 

“Yeah, I am. Why wouldn’t I be? Bit of a headache, but nothing major.” He smirked at the obviously ill man before him. “How’re _you_ feeling?”

“Me? Gregory, your _arm_! I found the needle….you didn’t…”

“The what? The _drugs_? Is that what this is about? Christ, Myc, of course I didn’t do that! What do you think happened last night that made you think did that?”

“Honestly I…” Mycroft ran a hand down his face. Now that the fear and panic had dispersed, he was embarrassed at his outburst. Embarrassed and nauseous. Definitely still nauseous. “Honestly, I have no idea. I remember nothing after you gave me Sherlock’s kit. I woke to find your torn shirt on my floor and an empty syringe in the bin in the bathroom.” He stared at his feet, chagrined at his overindulgence the night before.

Greg chuckled, but not loudly, there was still the matter of _his_ headache. He sat up, stretched and got to his feet, pleased with how steady he was on his feet. He shrugged on his suit jacket in lieu of a shirt.

“Nothing? You don’t remember ripping my shirt off? Kissing me? _Proposing_?”

Mycroft’s head snapped up, his eyes meeting Greg’s. Any color remaining from his earlier embarrassment vanished.

“What?” It was barely a whisper.

Greg let out a bark of a laugh, and then winced at the thud in his skull.

“Just kidding, Mycroft. You didn’t propose.” He turned toward the kitchen. “C’mon. Let’s get some water and food into you, then you’ll feel better.” Inside, Greg was grinning like a fool. Let Mycroft wonder if he had kissed him last night.

A quick inspection of the kitchen revealed coffee as well as all the fixings for a fry up. 

“How do you want your eggs?”

“Gregory, I-” Mycroft stammered.

Greg, cut him off. “Mycroft. Eggs?”

“I need to say this, please, Gregory!” Mycroft paused a moment, gathering words, breath, and courage.

“I’m sorry for anything that happened last night that could have offended you. Not just for last night, but the last few days as well. It was never my intent to deceive you, just let you know that I wasn’t as...unavailable as it may have seemed.”

“I get it, Myc, I do. The relationship thing is hard to navigate even when you know what you’re doing. I have one stipulation. It’s a deal breaker. You don’t lie to me. Ever. About anything. I know there’s stuff with work that you absolutely can’t tell me. I can’t discuss active cases with you either. That’s not what this is about. It’s about being able to trust you. My ex lied and screwed around on me for years, made me look like a right fool, she did. I’ll not put up with that again. Don’t answer right now. I want you to think about it. Make sure that it’s something you can commit to. You ever lie to me or manipulate me again, it will be the last you see of me.”

“I understand, Gregory.” Mycroft took a deep breath, relieved. He couldn’t have done anything too awful last night, like propose. He was a bit miffed at Greg for pulling that one on him. He hadn’t denied the kissing allegation, though. Had he kissed Greg? Has it been any good? Greg was still here talking to him, so either it hadn’t happened, or it hadn’t been bad. “Oh, and Gregory? Scrambled.”

The coffee finished brewing so Mycroft poured two cups and then moved himself out of the way to the bistro table near the window. While Greg puttered around, preparing toast, eggs and sausages, Mycroft began his assigned task. _Swearing_ to never lie to Greg would be easy to do, but would he really be able to _do_ it? Mycroft was a _politician_ and a _Holmes_ , for crying out loud. Honesty was not a default setting for him. It would require a real effort on his part, cover stories had become a specialty of his. _Not_ dissembling was going to be a challenge. He looked over to where Gregory was flipping sausages in the pan, glimpses of his bare chest peeking out from his open suit jacket. Challenge accepted. 

Breakfast passed in amiable conversation. Mycroft had to admit that with food, water and coffee he was feeling much better, even the headache had faded to the background.

As they began to clear their plates a thought occurred to Mycroft. In all the chaos of the morning, he realized he hadn’t heard from either Sherlock or John. He mentioned as much to Greg.

Greg smirked. “Well, I’d call that a good sign. They must be occupied.”

Mycroft blushed at the thought of his little brother being ‘occupied’, then blushed harder at the thought that maybe, eventually, he and Gregory might be ‘occupied’. 

“Who would have guessed that the British Government was still capable of blushing? Mycroft you are positively _adorable_.”

“I am many things, Gregory,” Mycroft pulled himself up to his full height and attempted to look dignified in spite of the flames adorning his cheeks, “but _adorable_ is not one of them.”

“Sure thing, Myc.” Greg winked in a most condescending manner. 

“Gregory, I have been thinking about what you said earlier. About always being honest. To _be_ completely honest with you, it won’t be easy for me. For most of my adult life, deception has been rewarded, in one manner or another.” 

Greg pressed himself closer, stepping into Mycroft’s personal space. “Then maybe we should find some way to reward honesty.” Greg placed his hands lightly on Mycroft’s hips.

Mycroft swallowed nervously. Was he ready for this? 

“Yes, um, quite. That could help matters immensely.” He felt his mouth go dry as Greg leaned even closer, his exhale becoming Mycroft’s inhale. The whispering touch of lips barely skimming across his own was as shocking as it was fleeting. The gentle glide of Gregory’s tongue across his lower lip was quickly replaced by a playful nip. 

Greg pulled back fractionally and waited for Mycroft to open the eyes he had no recollection of closing.

“What do you think, Myc? Can you do it? Do you want this, us, badly enough to be completely honest with me?”

There was no other possible answer.

“Yes,” Mycroft breathed, and leaned in to seal his promise.


End file.
